Fifty Shades of Mr Salvatore
by Spirithunter12
Summary: When college senior Elena steps in for her sick roommate to interview prominent businessman Damon Salvatore. Little does she realize the path her life will take Damon, as enigmatic as he is rich and powerful, finds himself strangely drawn to Elena, and she to him. Though sexually inexperienced, Elena plunges headlong into an affair and witness pain and pleasure.
1. Chapter 1: The Meeting

Chapter One

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair - it just won't behave, and damn Caroline Forbes for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the tan, brown-haired girl with brown eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable.

Caroline is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu.

Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to do, with some mega-industri-alist tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I'm supposed to be working this afternoon, but no - today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Salvatore Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, his time is extraordinarily precious - much more precious than mine - but he has granted Caroline an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her extra-curricular activities.

Caroline is huddled on the couch in the living room.

"Elena, I'm sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Please," Caroline begs me in her rasping, sore throat voice. How does she do it Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, blonde hair in place and blue eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.

"Of course I'll go Care. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"

"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all."

"I know nothing about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic.

"The questions will see you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you to be late."

"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later." I stare at her fondly. Only for you, Care, would I do this.

"I will. Good luck. And thanks lena - as usual, you're my lifesaver."

Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Caroline talk me into this. But then Caroline can talk anyone into anything.

She'll make an exceptional journalist. She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful - and she's my dearest, dearest friend.

The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It's early, and I don't have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Caroline's lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.

My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Salvatore's global enterprise. It's a huge twenty-story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Salvatore House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'm not late as I walk into the enormous - and frankly intimidating - glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.

Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman smiles pleasantly at me. She's wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.

"I'm here to see Mr. Salvatore. Elena Gilbert for Caroline Forbes."

"Excuse me one moment, Miss Gilbert." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am beginning to wish I'd borrowed one of Care's formal blazers rather than wear my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible brown knee-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend she doesn't intimidate me.

"Miss Forbes is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Gilbert. You'll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.

She hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it's obvious that I'm just visiting. I don't fit in here at all.

Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.

The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'm in another large lobby - again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.

"Miss Gilbert, could you wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.

Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.

I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly curs-ing Caroline for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'm about to interview. He could be ninety or he could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colos-sal glass and stone edifice.

I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Gilbert. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Salvatore is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.

Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondesIt's like Stepford here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up. "Miss Gilbert?" the latest blonde asks.

"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.

"Mr. Salvatore will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?"

"Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket.

"Have you been offered any refreshment?"

"Um - no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?

Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.

"Would you like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.

"A glass of water. Thank you," I murmur.

"Olivia, please fetch Miss Gilbert a glass of water." Her voice is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.

"My apologies, Miss Gilbert, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Salvatore will be another five minutes."

Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.

"Here you go, Miss Gilbert."

"Thank you."

Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits down, and they both continue their work.

Perhaps Mr. Salvatore insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African-American man with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes.

He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Salvatore."

I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the elevator. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more nervous than me!

"Good afternoon ladies," he says as he departs through the sliding door.

"Mr. Salvatore will see you now, Miss Gilbert. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says.

I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.

"You don't need to knock - just go in." She smiles kindly.

I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.

Double crap - me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Salvatore's office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow - he's so young.

"Miss Forbes." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'm upright. "I'm Damon Salvatore. Are you all right. Would you like to sit?"

So young - and attractive, very attractive. He's tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark black colored hair and intense, bright gray-blue eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.

"Um. Actually - " I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.

"Miss Forbes is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Salvatore."

"And you are?" His voice is warm, possibly amused, but it's difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.

"Elena Gilbert. I'm studying English Literature with Care, um... Caroline...um... Miss Forbes at Washington State."

"I see," he says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in his expression, but I'm not sure. "Would you like to sit?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.

His office is way too big for just one man. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there's a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white - ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite - a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.

"A local artist. Trouton," says Salvatore when he catches my gaze.

"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.

"I couldn't agree more, Miss Gilbert," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.

Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Care's questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Salvatore says nothing, waiting patiently - I hope - as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I think he's trying to suppress a smile.

"Sorry," I stutter. "I'm not used to this."

"Take all the time you need, Miss Gilbert," he says.

"Do you mind if I record your answers?"

"After you've taken so much trouble to set up the recorder - you ask me now?"

I flush. He's teasing me, I hope. I blink at him, unsure what to say, and I think he takes pity on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."

"Did Care, I mean, Miss Forbes, explain what the interview was for?"

"Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year's graduation ceremony."

Oh! This is news to me, and I'm temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me - okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still - is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.

"Good," I swallow nervously. "I have some questions, Mr. Salvatore." I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

"I thought you might," he says, deadpan. He's laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.

"You're very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?" I glance up at him. His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.

"Business is all about people, Miss Gilbert, and I'm very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his gray stare. "My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it's always down to good people."

"Maybe you're just lucky." This isn't on Caroline's list - but he's so arrogant. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.

"I don't subscribe to luck or chance, Miss Gilbert. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and develop-ment of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"

"You sound like a control freak." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Gilbert," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.

Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me. His overwhelming good-looks maybeThe way his eyes blaze at me. The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip. I wish he'd stop doing that.

"Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things," he continues, his voice soft.

"Do you feel that you have immense power?" Control Freak.

"I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Gilbert. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility - power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so."

My mouth drops open. I am staggered by his lack of humility.

"Don't you have a board to answer to?" I ask, disgusted.

"I own my company. I don't have to answer to a board." He raises an eyebrow at me.

I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, he's so arrogant. I change tack.

"And do you have any interests outside your work?"

"I have varied interests, Miss Gilbert." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Very varied." And for some reason, I'm confounded and heated by his steady gaze. His eyes are alight with some wicked thought.

"But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?"

"Chill out?" He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. He really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.

"Well, to 'chill out' as you put it - I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits."

He shifts in his chair. "I'm a very wealthy man, Miss Gilbert, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies."

I glance quickly at Caroline's questions, wanting to get off this subject.

"You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?" I ask. Why does he make me so uncomfortable?

"I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?"

"That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts."

His mouth quirks up, and he stares appraisingly at me.

"Possibly. Though there are people who'd say I don't have a heart."

"Why would they say that?"

"Because they know me well." His lip curls in a wry smile.

"Would your friends say you're easy to get to know?" And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It's not on Caroline's list.

"I'm a very private person, Miss Gilbert. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don't often give interviews," he trails off.

"Why did you agree to do this one?"

"Because I'm a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn't get Miss Forbes off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity."

I know how tenacious Care can be. That's why I'm sitting here squirming uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.

"You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?"

"We can't eat money, Miss Gilbert, and there are too many people on this planet who don't have enough to eat."

"That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about. Feeding the world's poor?"

He shrugs, very non-committal.

"It's shrewd business," he murmurs, though I think he's being disingenuous. It doesn't make sense - feeding the world's poorI can't see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by his attitude.

"Do you have a philosophy, If so, what is it?"

"I don't have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle - Carnegie's: 'A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.' I'm very singular, driven. I like control - of myself and those around me."

"So you want to possess things?" You are a control freak.

"I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do."

"You sound like the ultimate consumer."

"I am." He smiles, but the smile doesn't touch his eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can't help thinking that we're talking about something else, but I'm absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it's just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Care has enough material nowI glance at the next question.

"You've had to sacrifice a family life for your work."

"That's not a question." He's terse.

"Sorry." I squirm, and he's made me feel like an errant child. I try again. "Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?"

"I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I'm not interested in extending my family beyond that."

"Are you gay, Mr. Salvatore?"

He inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn't I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out. How can I tell him I'm just reading the questions?

Damn Caroline and her curiosity!

"No Elena, I'm not gay." He raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in his eyes. He does not look pleased.

"I apologize. It's um... written here." It's the first time he's said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.

He cocks his head to one side.

"These aren't your own questions?"

The blood drains from my head. Oh no.

"Err... no. Care - Miss Forbes- she compiled the questions."

"Are you colleagues on the student paper?" Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It's her extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame.

"No. She's my roommate."

He rubs his chin in quiet deliberation, his gray eyes appraising me.

"Did you volunteer to do this interview?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.

Hang on, who's supposed to be interviewing whom. His eyes burn into me, and I'm compelled to answer with the truth.

"I was drafted. She's not well." My voice is weak and apologetic.

"That explains a great deal."

There's a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.

"Mr. Salvatore , forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes."

"We're not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting."

Andrea hesitates, gaping at him. She's appears lost. He turns his head slowly to face her and raises his eyebrows. She flushes bright pink. Oh good. It's not just me.

"Very well, Mr. Salvatore," she mutters, then exits. He frowns, and turns his attention back to me.

"Where were we, Miss Gilbert?"

"Please don't let me keep you from anything."

"I want to know about you. I think that's only fair." His gray blue eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where's he going with this. He places his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. His mouth is very... distracting. I swallow.

"There's not much to know," I say, flushing again.

"What are your plans after you graduate?"

I shrug, thrown by his interest. Come to Seattle with Caroline, find a place, find a job. I haven't really thought beyond my finals.

"I haven't made any plans, Mr. Salvatore. I just need to get through my finals."

Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.

"We run an excellent internship program here," he says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is he offering me a job?

"Oh. I'll bear that in mind," I murmur, completely confounded. "Though I'm not sure I'd fit in here." Oh no. I'm musing out loud again.

"Why do you say that?" He cocks his head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" I'm uncoordinated, scruffy, and I'm not blonde.

"Not to me," he murmurs. His gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from his scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What's going on I have to go - now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.

"Would you like me to show you around?" he asks.

"I'm sure you're far too busy, Mr. Salvatore, and I do have a long drive."

"You're driving back to WSU in Vancouver?" He sounds surprised, anxious even. He glances out of the window. It's begun to rain. "Well, you'd better drive carefully." His tone is stern, authoritative. Why should he care. "Did you get everything you need?" he adds.

"Yes sir," I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. His eyes narrow, speculatively.

"Thank you for the interview, Mr. Salvatore."

"The pleasure's been all mine," he says, polite as ever.

As I rise, he stands and holds out his hand.

"Until we meet again, Miss Gilbert." And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I'm not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again. I shake his hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.

"Mr. Salvatore." I nod at him. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, he opens it wide.

"Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Gilbert." He gives me a small smile.

Obviously, he's referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into his office. I flush.

"That's very considerate, Mr. Salvatore," I snap, and his smile widens. I'm glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I'm surprised when he follows me out. Andrea and Olivia both look up, equally surprised.

"Did you have a coat?" Salvatore asks.

"Yes." Olivia leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Damon takes from her before she can hand it to me. He holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on.

Salvatore places his hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If he notices my reaction, he gives nothing away. His long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting - awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on his.

The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at him, he's leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. He really is very, very good-looking. It's distracting. His burning gray eyes gaze at me.

"Elena," he says as a farewell.

"Damon," I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.

Review:

Well guys this is my first one. I'll be posting the second one tomorrow.

Cast:

Nina Dobrev as Elena Gilbert.

Ian Somerhalder as Damon Salvatore

Paul Wesley as Stefan Salvatore (Damon's brother).

Blair Salvatore as Megan Fox (The Salvatore sister).

Maxim Roy as Lilian (lily) Salvatore (The Salvatore Mother) .

Todd Lasance as Julian Salvatore (The Salvatore Father).

Candice King as Caroline Forbes

Zach Roerig as Matt Donovan

Nathaniel Buzolic as Paul.

Elizabeth Hurley as Mrs. Robinson.


	2. Chapter 2: Until we meet again

My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I'm free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Seattle. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what's left of my equilibrium.

No man has ever affected me the way Damon Salvatore has, and I cannot fathom why.

Is it his looks, His civility, Wealth Power, I don't understand my irrational reaction.

I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven's name was that all about. Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap - what was that. My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.

As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I'm over-reacting to something that's imaginary. Okay, so he's very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with himself - but on the flip side, he's arrogant, and for all his impeccable manners, he's autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface.

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. He may be arrogant, but then he has a right to be - he's accomplished so much at such a young age. He doesn't suffer fools gladly, but why should he. Again, I'm irritated that Care didn't give me a brief biography.

While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I'm truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of his answers were so cryptic - as if he had a hidden agenda. And Care's questions - ugh! The adoption and asking him if he was gay! I shudder. I can't believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Caroline Forbes!

I check the speedometer. I'm driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it's the memory of two penetrating blue eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that he is more like a man double his age.

Forget it, Elena, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it's been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn't dwell on it . Put it behind you. I never have to see him again. I'm immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the accelerator.

As I hit the 1-5, I realize I can drive as fast as I want.

We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Vancouver, Washington, close to the Vancouver campus of WSU. I'm lucky - Care's parents bought the place for her, and I pay peanuts for rent. It's been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Care is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and she is tenacious. Well, at least she has the mini-disc. Hopefully I won't have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.

"Elena! You're back." Care sits in our living area, surrounded by books. She's clearly been studying for finals - though she's still in her pink flannel pajamas decorated with cute little rabbits, the ones she reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with boyfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. She bounds up to me and hugs me hard.

"I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner."

"Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over." I wave the mini-disc recorder at her.

"Elena, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it What was he like?"Oh no here we go, the Caroline Forbes Inquisition.

I struggle to answer her question. What can I say?

"I'm glad it's over, and I don't have to see him again. He was rather intimidating, you know." I shrug. "He's very focused, intense even - and young. Really young."

Caroline gazes innocently at me. I frown at her

"Don't you look so innocent. Why didn't you give me a biography. He made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research." Caroline clamps a hand to her mouth.

"Jeez, Elena, I'm sorry - I didn't think."

I huff.

"Mostly he was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy - like he's old before his time. He doesn't talk like a man of twenty-something. How old is he anyway?"

"Twenty-seven. Jeez, Elena, I'm sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I'll start transcribing the interview."

"You look better. Did you eat your soup?" I ask, keen to change the subject.

"Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I'm feeling much better." She smiles at me in gratitude. I check my watch.

"I have to run. I can still make my shift at Clayton's."

"Elena, you'll be exhausted."

"I'll be fine. I'll see you later."

I've worked at Clayton's since I started at WSU. It's the largest independent hardware store in the Portland area, and over the four years I've worked here, I've come to know a little bit about most everything we sell - although ironically, I'm crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my dad. I'm much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the-fire kind of girl. I'm glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn't Damon Salvatore. We're busy - it's the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mrs. Clayton is pleased to see me.

"Elena! I thought you weren't going to make it today."

"My appointment didn't take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours."

"I'm real pleased to see you."

She sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I'm soon absorbed in the task.

When I arrive home later, Caroline is wearing headphones and working on her laptop.

Her nose is still pink, but she has her teeth into a story, so she's concentrating and typing furiously. I'm thoroughly drained - exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Clayton's. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven't done today because I was holed up with ... him.

"You've got some good stuff here, Elena. Well done. I can't believe you didn't take him up on his offer to show you around. He obviously wanted to spend more time with

you."

She gives me a fleeting quizzical look.

I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn't the reason, surely. He just wanted to show me around so I could see that he was lord of all he surveyed. I realize I'm biting my lip, and I hope Care doesn't notice. But she seems absorbed in her transcrip-tion."I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?" she asks.

"Um... no, I didn't."

"That's fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don't have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn't he?"

I flush.

"I suppose so." I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed.

"Oh come on, Lena- even you can't be immune to his looks." She arches a perfect eyebrow at me.

Crap! I distract her with flattery, always a good ploy.

"You probably would have got a lot more out of him."

"I doubt that, Elena. Come on - he practically offered you a job. Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very well." She glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen.

"So what did you really think of him?" Damn, she's inquisitive. Why can't she just let this goThink of something - quick.

"He's very driven, controlling, arrogant - scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination," I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at her hoping this will shut her up once and for all.

"You, fascinated by a man.That's a first," she snorts.

I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so she can't see my face.

"Why did you want to know if he was gay? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and he was pissed to be asked too." I scowl at the memory.

"Whenever he's in the society pages, he never has a date."

"It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I'm glad I'll never have to lay eyes on him again."

"Oh, Elena, it can't have been that bad. I think he sounds quite taken with you."

Taken with me Now Care's being ridiculous.

"Would you like a sandwich?"

"Please."

We talk no more of Damon Salvatore that evening, much to my relief. Once we've eaten, I'm able to sit at the dining table with Care and, while she works on her article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it's midnight, and Care has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I've accomplished so much for a Monday.

I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my mother's quilt around me, close my eyes, and I'm instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold floors, and gray-blue eyes.

For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Clayton's. Caroline is busy too, compiling her last edition of her student magazine before she has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for her finals. By Wednesday, she's much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of her pink-flannel-with-too-many-rabbits PJs. I call my mom in Virginia to check on her, but also so she can wish me luck for my final exams. She proceeds to tell me about her latest venture into candle making - my mother is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally she's bored and wants something to occupy her time, but she has the attention span of a goldfish. It'll be something new next week.

She worries me. I hope she hasn't mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I hope that Grayson - her relatively new but much older husband - is keeping an eye on her now that I'm no longer there. He does seem a lot more grounded than Husband Number Three.

"How are things with you, Lena?"

For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Mom's full attention.

"I'm fine."

"Elena. Have you met someone?" Wow... how does she do that. The excitement in her voice is palpable.

"No, Mom, it's nothing. You'll be the first to know if I do."

"Lena darling, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me."

"Mom, I'm fine. How's Grayson?" As ever, distraction is the best policy.

Later that evening, I call John, my stepdad, Mom's Husband Number Two, the man I consider my father, and the man whose name I bear. It's a brief conversation. In fact, it's not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. John is not a talker. But he's still alive, he's still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when he's not. John is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with him.

Friday night, Care and I are debating what to do with our evening - we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers - when the doorbell rings.

Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Matt, clutching a bottle of champagne.

"Matt! Great to see you!" I give him a quick hug. "Come in."

Matt is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did.

We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we've been friends ever since.

Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both John and Matt's dad The Senior were in the same army unit together. As a result, our fathers have become firm friends too.

Matt is studying engineering and is the first in his family to make it to college. He's pretty damn bright, but his real passion is photography. Matt has a great eye for a good picture.

"I have news." He grins, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Don't tell me - you've managed not to get kicked out for another week," I tease, and he scowls playfully at me.

"The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month."

"That's amazing - congratulations!" Delighted for him, I hug him again. Care beams at him too.

"Way to go Matt! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening." She grins.

"Let's celebrate. I want you to come to the opening." Matt looks intently at me. I flush.

"Both of you, of course," he adds, glancing nervously at Care.

Matt and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, he'd like to be more. He's cute and funny, but he's just not for me. He's more like the brother I never had. Caroline often teases me that I'm missing the need-a-boyfriend gene, but the truth is - I just haven't met anyone who... well, whom I'm attracted to, even though part of me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights.

Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me. Perhaps I've spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody's ever made me feel like that.

Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers.

NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview. Are you gay, Mr. Salvatore I wince at the memory. I know I've dreamt about him most nights since then, but that's just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?

I watch Matt open the bottle of champagne. He's tall, and in his jeans and t-shirt he's all shoulders and muscles, fair skin, blonde hair and sky blue eyes. Yes, Matt's pretty hot, but I think he's finally getting the message: we're just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Matt looks up and smiles.

Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, Henry and Patrick - the two other part-timers

And we are all rushed off our feet. But there's a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I'm sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I'm engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we've ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up... and find myself locked in the bold and hypnotic gaze of Christian Grey who's standing at the counter, staring at me intently.

Heart failure.

"Miss Gilbert. What a pleasant surprise." His gaze is unwavering and intense.

Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in his tight white dress shirt, jeans, and walking boots. I think my mouth has popped open, and I can't locate my brain or my voice.

"Mr. Salvatore," I whisper, because that's all I can manage. There's a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he's enjoying some private joke.

"I was in the area," he says by way of explanation. "I need to stock up on a few things. It's a pleasure to see you again, Miss Gilbert." His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel... or something.

I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I'm blushing furiously under his steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me. My memories of him did not do him justice. He's not merely good-looking - he's the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking, and he's here. Here in Clayton's Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.

"Elena. My name's Elena," I mutter. "What can I help you with, Mr. Salvatore?"

He smiles, and again it's like he's privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I've-worked-in-this-shop-for-years facade. I can do this.

"There are a few items I need. To start with, I'd like some cable ties," he murmurs, his gray-blue eyes cool but amused.

Cable ties?

"We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?" I mutter, my voice soft and wavery.

Get a grip, Gilbert. A slight frown mars Salvatore's rather lovely brow.

"Please. Lead the way, Miss Gilbert," he says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I'm concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet - my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I'm so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.

"They're in with the electrical goods, aisle eight." My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at him and regret it almost immediately. Damn, he's handsome. I blush.

"After you," he murmurs, gesturing with his long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand. With my heart almost strangling me - because it's in my throat trying to escape from my mouth - I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is he in Portland?

Why is he here at Clayton's And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells - comes the thought: he's here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

"Are you in Portland on business?" I ask, and my voice is too high, like I've got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Elena!

"I was visiting the WSU farming division. It's based at Vancouver. I'm currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science," he says matter-of-factly. See?

Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.

"All part of your feed-the-world plan?" I tease.

"Something like that," he acknowledges, and his lips quirk up in a half smile.

He gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton's. What on Earth is he going to do with those. I cannot picture him as a do-it-yourselfer at all. His fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. He bends and selects a packet.

"These will do," he says with his oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.

"Is there anything else?"

"I'd like some masking tape."

Masking tape?

"Are you redecorating?" The words are out before I can stop them. Surely he hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?

"No, not redecorating," he says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he's laughing at me.

Am I that FunnyFunny looking?

"This way," I murmur embarrassed. "Masking tape is in the decorating aisle."

I glance behind me as he follows.

"Have you worked here long?" His voice is low, and he's gazing at me, grey eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does he have this effect on me?

I feel like I'm fourteen years old - gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Gilbert!

"Four years," I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.

"I'll take that one," Salvatore says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to him.

Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I've touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.

"Anything else?" My voice is husky and breathy. His eyes widen slightly.

"Some rope, I think." His voice mirrors mine, husky.

"This way." I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.

"What sort were you after. We have synthetic and natural filament rope... twine...cable cord... " I halt at his expression, his eyes darkening. Holy cow.

"I'll take five yards of the natural filament rope please."

Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that his hot grey gaze is on me. I dare not look at him. Jeez, could I feel any more self-conscious. Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.

"Were you a Girl Scout?" he asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don't look at his mouth!

"Organized, group activities aren't really my thing, Mr. Salvatore."

He arches a brow.

"Then what is your thing, Elena?" he asks, his voice soft and his secret smile is back. I gaze at him unable to express myself. I'm on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Elena, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.

"I don't know. Books, I think" I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing!

I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.

"What kind of books?" He cocks his head to one side. Why is he so interested?

"Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly."

He rubs his chin with his long index finger and thumb as he contemplates my answer.

Or perhaps he's just very bored and trying to hide it.

"Anything else you need?" I have to get off this subject - those fingers on that face are so beguiling.

"I don't know. What else would you recommend?"

What would I recommend. I don't even know what you're doing.

"For a do-it-yourselfer?"

He nods, grey eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to his snug jeans.

"Coveralls," I reply, and I know I'm no longer screening what's coming out of my mouth.

He raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.

"You wouldn't want to ruin your clothing," I gesture vaguely in the direction of his jeans.

"I could always take them off." He smirks.

"Um." I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.

"I'll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing," he says dryly.

I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of him without jeans.

"Do you need anything else?" I squeak as I hand him the blue coveralls.

He ignores my inquiry.

"How's the article coming along?"

He's finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk... a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if were a life raft, and I go for honesty.

"I'm not writing it, Caroline is. Miss Forbes. My roommate, she's the writer. She's very happy with it. She's the editor of the magazine, and she was devastated that she couldn't do the interview in person." I feel like I've come up for air - at last, a normal topic of conversation. "Her only concern is that she doesn't have any original photographs of you."

Salvatore raises an eyebrow.

"What sort of photographs does she want?"

Okay. I hadn't factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don't know.

"Well, I'm around. Tomorrow, perhaps... " he trails off.

"You'd be willing to attend a photo shoot?" My voice is squeaky again. Care will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see him again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought - of all the silly, ridiculous...

"Care will be delighted - if we can find a photographer." I'm so pleased, I smile at him broadly. His lips part, like he's taking a sharp intake of breath, and he blinks. For a fraction of a second, he looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.

Oh my. Damon Salvatore's lost look.

"Let me know about tomorrow." Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out his wallet. "My card. It has my cell number on it. You'll need to call before ten in the morning."

"Okay." I grin up at him. Caroline is going to be thrilled.

"ELENA!"

Liam has materialized at other the end of the aisle. He's Mr. Clayton's youngest brother. I'd heard he was home from Princeton, but I wasn't expecting to see him today.

"Er, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Salvatore." Salvatore frowns as I turn away from him.

Liam has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I'm having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Damon Salvatore , it's great to talk to someone who's normal. Liam hugs me hard taking me by surprise.

"Elena, hi, it's so good to see you!" he gushes.

"Hello Liam, how are you. You home for your brother's birthday?"

"Yep. You're looking well, Elena, really well." He grins as he examines me at arm's length. Then he releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It's good to see Liam, but he's always been over-familiar.

When I glance up at Damon, he's watching us like a hawk, his gray eyes hooded and speculative, his mouth a hard impassive line. He's changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else - someone cold and distant.

"Liam, I'm with a customer. Someone you should meet," I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Salvatore's eyes. I drag Liam over to meet him, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.

"Er, Liam, this is Damon Salvatore. Mr. Salvatore, this is Liam Clayton. His brother owns the place." And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.

"I've known Liam ever since I've worked here, though we don't see each other that often. He's back from Princeton where he's studying business administration." I'm babbling... Stop, now!

"Mr. Clayton." Damon holds his hand out, his look unreadable.

"Mr. Salvatore," Liam returns his handshake. "Wait up - not the Damon Salvatore? Of Salvatore Enterprises Holdings?" Liam goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Damon gives him a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Wow - is there anything I can get you?"

"Elena has it covered, Mr. Clayton. She's been very attentive." His expression is impassive, but his words... it's like he's saying something else entirely. It's baffling.

"Cool," Liam responds. "Catch you later, Lena."

"Sure, Liam." I watch him disappear toward the stock room. "Anything else, Mr. Salvatore?"

"Just these items." His tone is clipped and cool. Damn... have I offended him. Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is his problem

I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.

"That will be forty-three dollars, please." I glance up at Salvatore, and I wish I hadn't. He's watching me closely, his gray eyes intense and smoky. It's unnerving.

"Would you like a bag?" I ask as I take his credit card.

"Please, Elena." His tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic.

I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place his purchases in a plastic carrier.

"You'll call me if you want me to do the photo shoot?" He's all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back his credit card.

"Good. Until tomorrow perhaps." He turns to leave, then pauses. "Oh - and Elena, I'm glad Miss Forbes couldn't do the interview." He smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over his shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging female hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which he's just left before I return to planet Earth.

Okay - I like him. There, I've admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I've never felt like this before. I find him attractive, very attractive. But it's a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, his coming here. But still, I can admire him from afar, surely. No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to call Care and organize a photo-shoot.


	3. Chapter 3: Rejected or Retracted

Caroline Forbes is ecstatic.

"But what was he doing at Clayton's?" Her curiosity oozes through the phone. I'm in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.

"He was in the area."

"I think that is one huge coincidence, Elena. You don't think he was there to see you?"

She speculates. My heart lurches at the prospect, but it's a short-lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that he was here on business.

"He was visiting the farming division of WSU. He's funding some research,"I mutter.

"Oh yes. He's given the department a $2.5 million grant."

Wow.

"How do you know this?"

"Elena, I'm a journalist, and I've written a profile on the guy. It's my job to know this."

"Okay, Carla Bernstein, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?"

"Of course I do. The question is, who's going to do them and where."

"We could ask him where. He says he's staying in the area."

"You can contact him?"

"I have his cell phone number."

Caroline gasps.

"The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic bachelor in Washington State, just gave you his cell phone number."

"Er... yes."

"Elena! He likes you. No doubt about it." Her tone is emphatic.

"Care, he's just trying to be nice." But even as I say the words, I know they're not true.

\- Damon Salvatore doesn't do nice. He does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whispers, perhaps Care is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he might like me. After all, he did say he was glad Caroline didn't do the interview. I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that he might like me for one brief moment. Caroline brings me back to the now.

"I don't know who we'll get to do the shoot. Tyler, our regular photographer, can't. He's home in Idaho Falls for the weekend. He'll be pissed that he blew an opportunity to photo one of America's leading entrepreneurs."

"Hmm... What about Matt?"

"Great idea! You ask him - he'll do anything for you. Then call Mr. Salvatore and find out where he wants us." Care is irritatingly cavalier about Matt.

"I think you should call him."

"Who, Matt?" Kate scoffs.

"No, Damon."

"Lena, you're the one with the relationship."

"Relationship?" I squeak at her, my voice rising several octaves. "I barely know the guy."

"At least you've met him," she says bitterly. "And it looks like he wants to know you better. Lena, just call him," she snaps and hangs up. She is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my tongue out at it.

I'm just leaving a message for Matt when Liam enters the stock room looking for sand-paper.

"We're kind of busy out there, Elena," he says without acrimony.

"Yeah, um, sorry," I mutter, turning to leave.

"So, how come you know Damon Salvatore?" Liam's voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.

"I had to interview him for our student newspaper. Caroline wasn't well." I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than him.

"Damon Salvatore in Clayton's. Go figure," Liam snorts, amazed. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?"

Whenever he's home he asks me on a date, and I always say no. It's a ritual. I've never considered it a good idea to date the boss's brother, and besides, Liam is cute in a whole-some all-American boy-next-door kind of way, but he's no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Salvatore My subconscious asks me, her eyebrow figuratively raised.

I slap her down.

"Don't you have a family dinner or something for your brother?"

"That's tomorrow."

"Maybe some other time, Liam. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week."

"Lena, one of these days, you'll say yes," he smiles as I escape out to the store floor.

"But I do places, Elena, not people," Matt groans.

"Matty, please?" I beg. Clutching my cell, I pace the living area of our apartment, staring out of the window at the fading evening light.

"Give me that phone." Care grabs the handset from me, tossing her silken blonde hair over her shoulder.

"Listen here, Matt Donovan, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you'll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?" Care can be awesomely tough.

"Good. Elena will call back with the location and the call time. We'll see you tomorrow." She snaps my cell phone shut.

"Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call him." She holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.

"Call Salvatore, now!"

I scowl at her and reach into my back pocket for his business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.

He answers on the second ring. His tone is clipped, calm and cold.

"Salvatore."

"Err... Mr. Salvatore. It's Elena Gilbert" I don't recognize my own voice, I'm so nervous. There's a brief pause. Inside I'm quaking.

"Miss Gilbert. How nice to hear from you." His voice has changed. He's surprised, I think, and he sounds so..warm - seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I'm suddenly conscious that Caroline Forbes is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny.

"Err - we'd like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article." Breathe, Elena, breathe.

My lungs drag in a hasty breath. "Tomorrow, if that's okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?"

I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone.

"I'm staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morning?"

"Okay, we'll see you there." I am all gushing and breathy - like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the State of Washington.

"I look forward to it, Miss Gilbert." I visualize the wicked gleam in his gray eyes. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise I hang up. Care is in the kitchen, and she's staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face.

"Elena Grace Gilbert. You like him! I've never seen or heard you so, so... affected by anyone before. You're actually blushing."

"Oh Care, you know I blush all the time. It's an occupational hazard with me. Don't be so ridiculous," I snap. She blinks at me with surprise - I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram - and I briefly relent. "I just find him... intimidating, that's all."

"Heathman, that figures," mutters Care. "I'll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot."

"I'll make supper. Then I need to study." I cannot hide my irritation with her as I open one of cupboards to make supper.

I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding. Oh, I'm going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.

The Heathman is nestled in the downtown heart of Portland. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s. Matt, Kol, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Care is in her CLK, since we can't all fit in my car. Kol is Matt's friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Care has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article. When she explains at reception that we're here to photograph Damon Salvatore, The CEO Of Salvatore Enterprises and Co, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Salvatore is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite - he's terribly young and very nervous for some reason.

I suspect it's Caroline's beauty and commanding manner that disarms him, because he's putty in her hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.

It's nine. We have half an hour to set up. Care is in full flow.

"Matt, I think we'll shoot against that wall, do you agree?" She doesn't wait for his reply. "Kol, clear the chairs. Lena, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refresh-ments? And let Salvatore know where we are."

Yes, Mistress. She is so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I'm told.

Half an hour later, Damon Salvatore walks into our suite.

Holy Crap! He's wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and grey flannel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at him... he's so freaking hot. Damon is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-thirties, all buzz-cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. His grey-blue eyes watch us impassively.

"Miss Gilbert, we meet again." Salvatore extends his hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly.

Oh my... he really is, quite... wow. As I touch his hand, I'm aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I'm sure my erratic breathing must be audible.

"Mr. Salvatore, this is Caroline Forbes," I mutter, waving a hand toward Caroline who comes forward, looking him squarely in the eye.

"The tenacious Miss Forbes. How do you do?" He gives her a small smile, looking genuinely amused. "I trust you're feeling better. Elena said you were unwell last week."

"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Salvatore." She shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid.

I remind myself that Care has been to the best private schools in Washington. Her family has money, and she's grown up confident and sure of her place in the world. She doesn't take any crap. I am in awe of her.

"Thank you for taking the time to do this." She gives him a polite, professional smile.

"It's a pleasure," he answers, turning his gray gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.

"This is Matt Donovan, our photographer," I say, grinning at Matt who smiles with affection back at me. His eyes cool when he looks from me to Damon.

"Mr. Salvatore," he nods.

"Mr. Donovan ," Grey's expression changes too as he appraises Matt.

"Where would you like me?" Salvatore asks him. His tone sounds vaguely threatening. But Caroline is not about to let Matt run the show.

"Mr. Salvatore - if you could sit here, please. Be careful of the lighting cables. And then we'll do a few standing, too." She directs him to a chair set up against the wall.

Kol switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Damon, and mutters an apology.

Then Kol and I stand back and watch as Matt proceeds to snap away. He takes several photographs hand-held, asking Damon to turn this way, then that, to move his arm, then put it down again. Moving to the tripod, Matt takes several more, while Salvatore sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Damon Salvatore from not-so-afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from his cloudy gaze.

"Enough sitting." Caroline wades in again. "Standing, Mr. Salvatore?" she asks.

He stands, and Kol scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on Matt's Nikon starts clicking again.

"I think we have enough," Matt announces five minutes later.

"Great," says Care. "Thank you, Mr. Salvatore." She shakes his hand, as does Matt.

"I look forward to reading the article, Miss Forbes," murmurs Damon, and turns to me, standing by the door. "Will you walk with me, Miss Gilbert?" he asks.

"Sure," I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Care, who shrugs at me. I notice Matt scowling behind her.

"Good day to you all," says Salvatore as he opens the door, standing aside to allow me out first.

Holy hell... what's this about. What does he want I pause in the hotel corridor, fidgeting nervously as Salvatore emerges from the room followed by Mr. Buzz-Cut in his sharp suit.

"I'll call you, Taylor," he murmurs to Buzz-Cut. Taylor wanders back down the corridor, and Damon turns his burning gray gaze to me. Crap... have I done something wrong?

"I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning."

My heart slams into my mouth. A date. Damon Salvatore is asking me on a date. He's asking if you want a coffee. Maybe he thinks you haven't woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat trying to control my nerves.

"I have to drive everyone home," I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and fingers in front of me.

"TAYLOR," he calls, making me jump. Taylor, who had been retreating down the corridor, turns and heads back toward us.

"Are they based at the university?" Salvatore asks, his voice soft and inquiring. I nod, too stunned to speak.

"Taylor can take them. He's my driver. We have a large 4x4 here, so he'll be able to take the equipment too."

"Mr. Salvatore?" Taylor asks when he reaches us, giving nothing away.

"Please, can you drive the photographer, his assistant, and Miss Forbes back home?"

"Certainly, sir," Taylor replies.

"There. Now can you join me for coffee?" Salvatore smiles as if it's a done deal.

"Um - Mr. Salvatore , err - this really... look, Taylor doesn't have to drive them home." I flash a brief look at Taylor, who remains stoically impassive. "I'll swap vehicles with Caroline, if you give me a moment."

Salvatore smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh my... and he opens the door of the suite so I can re-enter. I scoot around him to enter the room, finding Caroline in deep discussion with Matt.

"Elena, I think he definitely likes you," she says with no preamble whatsoever. Matt glares at me with disapproval. "But I don't trust him," she adds. I raise my hand up in the hope that she'll stop talking. By some miracle, she does.

"Care, if you take the Beetle, can I take your car?"

"Why?"

"Damon Salvatore has asked me to go for coffee with him."

Her mouth pops open. Speechless Caroline! I savor the moment. She grabs me by my arm and drags me into the bedroom that's off the living area of the suite.

"Elena, there's something about him." Her tone is full of warning. "He's gorgeous, I agree, but I think he's dangerous. Especially to someone like you."

"What do you mean, someone like me?" I demand, affronted.

"An innocent like you, Lena. You know what I mean," she says a little irritated. I flush.

"Care, it's just coffee. I'm starting my exams this week, and I need to study, so I won't be long."

She purses her lips as if considering my request. Finally, she fishes her car keys out of her pocket and hands them to me. I hand her mine.

"I'll see you later. Don't be long, or I'll send out search and rescue."

"Thanks." I hug her.

I emerge from the suite to find Damon Salvatore waiting, leaning up against the wall, looking like a male model in a pose for some high-end magazine.

"Okay, let's do coffee," I murmur, flushing a beet red.

He grins.

"After you, Miss Gilbert." He stands up straight, holding his hand out for me to go first.

I make my way down the corridor, my knees shaky, my stomach full of butterflies, and my heart in my mouth thumping a dramatic uneven beat. I am going to have coffee with Damon Salvatore!

We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators. What should I say to him My mind is suddenly paralyzed with apprehension. What are we going to talk about?

What on Earth do I have in common with him. His soft, warm voice startles me from my reverie.

"How long have you known Caroline Forbes?"

Oh, an easy questions for starters.

"Since our freshman year. She's a good friend."

"Hmm," he replies, non-committal. What is he thinking?

At the elevators, he presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The doors slide open revealing a young couple in a passionate clinch inside. Surprised and embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Damon and I step into the elevator.

I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Salvatore through my lashes, he has a hint of a smile on his lips, but it's very hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to the first floor in embarrassed silence. We don't even have trashy piped music to distract us.

The doors open and, much to my surprise, Damon takes my hand, clasping it with his long cool fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accelerates. As he leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple erupting behind us. Damon grins.

"What is it about elevators?" he mutters.

We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance but Salvatore avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that's because he'd have to let go of my hand.

Outside, it's a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Damon turns left and strolls to the corner, where we stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing to change. He's still holding my hand. I'm in the street, and Damon Salvatore is holding my hand. No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Elena, my subconscious implores me.

We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Damon releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.

"Why don't you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?" he asks, polite as ever.

"I'll have... um - French Vanilla Coffee ."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Is that bad"? I ask nervously.

He smiles.

"Okay, French Vanilla. Sugar?"

For a moment, I'm stunned, thinking it's an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid - do you take sugar?

"No thanks." I stare down at my knotted fingers.

"Anything to eat?"

"No thank you." I shake my head, and he heads to the counter.

I surreptitiously gaze at him from beneath my lashes as he stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch him all day... he's tall, broad-shouldered, and slim, and the way those pants hang from his hips... Oh my. Once or twice he runs his long, graceful fingers through his now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm... I'd like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Salvatore is back, startling me.

I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. He's carrying a tray, which he sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. He hands me my coffee with a teapot of milk and settles down. He has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that I wonder idly. He's also bought himself a blueberry muffin. He looks so comfortable, so at ease with his body, I envy him. Here's me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face.

"Your thoughts?" he prompts me.

"This is my favorite coffee." My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can't believe I'm sitting opposite Damon Salvatore in a coffee shop in Portland. He frowns. He knows I'm hiding something. I take the teapot and pour just a little bit of milk and placed the teapot down. He looks at me and frowns again.

"I like my coffee black and weak," I mutter as an explanation.

"I see. Is he your boyfriend?"

Whoa... What

"Who?"

"The photographer. Matt Donovan."

I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave him that impression?

"No. Matt is a good friend of mine, that's all. Why did you think he was my boyfriend?"

"The way you smiled at him, and he at you." His gray gaze holds mine. He's so unnerving. I want to look away but I'm caught - spellbound.

"He's more like family," I whisper.

Salvatore nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at his blueberry muffin. His long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.

"Do you want some?" he asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.

"No thanks." I frown and stare down at my hands again.

"And the boy I met yesterday, at the store. He's not your boyfriend?"

"No. Liam's just a friend. I told you yesterday." Oh, this is getting silly. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem nervous around men."

Holy crap, that's personal. I'm just nervous around you, Salvatore.

"I find you intimidating." I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear his sharp intake of breath.

"You should find me intimidating," he nods. "You're very honest. Please don't look down. I like to see your face."

Oh. I glance at him, and he gives me an encouraging but wry smile.

"It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking," he breathes. "You're a mystery, Miss Gilbert.

Mysterious. Me?

"There's nothing mysterious about me."

"I think you're very self-contained," he murmurs.

Am I? Wow... how am I managing that This is bewildering. Me, self-contained?

Oh hell no.y

"Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about." He pops a small piece of muffin into his mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking his eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!

"Do you always make such personal observations?"

"I hadn't realized I was. Have I offended you?" He sounds surprised.

"No," I answer truthfully.

"Good."

"But you're very high-handed," I retaliate quietly.

He raises his eyebrows and, if I'm not mistaken, he flushes slightly too.

"I'm used to getting my own way, Elena," he murmurs. "In all things."

"I don't doubt it. Why haven't you asked me to call you by your first name?" I'm surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious. This isn't going the way I thought it was going to go. I can't believe I'm feeling so antagonistic towards him.

It's like he's trying to warn me off.

"The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That's the way I like it."

Oh. He still hasn't said, 'Call me Damon.' He is a control freak, there's no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Care had interviewed him. Two control freaks together. Plus of course she's almost blonde - well, strawberry blonde - like all the women in his office. And she's beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don't like the idea of Damon and Caroline. I take a sip of my tea, and Salvatore eats another small piece of his muffin.

"Are you an only child?" he asks.

Whoa... he keeps changing direction.

"Yes."

"Tell me about your parents."

Why does he want to know thisIt's so dull.

"My mom lives in Virginia with her new husband Grayson. My stepdad lives in Montesano."

"Your father?"

"My father died when I was a baby."

"I'm sorry," he mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses his face.

"I don't remember him."

"And your mother remarried?"

I snort.

"You could say that."

He frowns at me.

"You're not giving much away, are you?" he says dryly, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.

"Neither are you."

"You've interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then." He smirks at me.

Holy shit. He's remembering the 'gay' question. Once again, I'm mortified. In years to come, I know, I'll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start babbling about my mother - anything to block that memory.

"My mom is wonderful. She's an incurable romantic. She's currently on her fourth husband."

Christian raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"I miss her," I continue. "She has Grayson now. I just hope he can keep an eye on her and pick up the pieces when her harebrained schemes don't go as planned." I smile fondly. I haven't seen my mom for so long. Damon is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of his coffee. I really shouldn't look at his mouth. It's unsettling. Those lips.

"Do you get along with your stepfather?"

"Of course. I grew up with him. He's the only father I know."

"And what's he like?"

"John. He's... taciturn."

"That's it?" Damon asks, surprised.

I shrug. What does this man expect

My life story?

"Taciturn like his stepdaughter," Salvatore prompts.

I refrain from rolling my eyes at him.

"He likes soccer - European soccer especially - and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. He's a carpenter. Ex-army." I sigh.

"You lived with him?"

"Yes. My mom met Husband Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Grayson."

He frowns as if he doesn't understand.

"You didn't want to live with your mom?" he asks.

I blush. This really is none of his business.

"Husband Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And... you know my mom was newly married." I stop. My mom never talks about Husband Number Three. Where is Salvatore going with this.This is none of his business. Two can play at this game.

"Tell me about your parents," I ask.

He shrugs.

"My dad's a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle."

Oh... he's had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful man who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove him to be that way. His folks must be proud.

"What do your siblings do?"

"Stefan's in construction, and my little sister is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef." His eyes cloud with irritation. He doesn't want to talk about his family or himself.

"I hear Paris is lovely," I murmur. Why doesn't he want to talk about his family. Is it because he's adopted?

"It's beautiful. Have you been?" he asks, his irritation forgotten.

"I've never left mainland USA." So now we're back to banalities. What is he hiding?

"Would you like to go?"

"To Paris?" I squeak. This has thrown me - who wouldn't want to go to Paris.

"Of course," I concede. "But it's England that I'd really like to visit."

He cocks his head to one side, running his index finger across his lower lip... oh my.

"Because?"

I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Gilbert.

"It's the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontsisters, Thomas Hardy. I'd like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books."

All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch.

"I'd better go. I have to study."

"For your exams?"

"Yes. They start Tuesday."

"Where's Miss Forbes' car?"

"In the hotel parking lot."

"I'll walk you back."

"Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Salvator."

He smiles his odd I've got a whopping big secret smile.

"You're welcome, Elena. It's my pleasure. Come," he commands, and holds his hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow him out of the coffee shop.

We stroll back to the hotel, and I'd like to say it's in companionable silence. He at least looks his usual calm, collected self. As for me, I'm desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I've been interviewed for a position, but I'm not sure what it is.

"Do you always wear jeans?" he asks out of the blue.

"Mostly."

He nods. We're back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question... And I'm aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I've completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" I blurt out. Holy crap - I just said that out loud?

His lips quirk up in a half-smile, and he looks down at me.

"No, Elena. I don't do the girlfriend thing," he says softly.

Oh... what does that mean He's not gay. Oh, maybe he is - crap! He must have lied to me in his interview. And for a moment, I think he's going to follow on with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement - but he doesn't. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from him. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong onto the road.

"Shit, Elena!" Damon cries. He tugs the hand that he's holding so hard that I fall back against him just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.

It all happens so fast - one minute I'm falling, the next I'm in his arms, and he's holding me tightly against his chest. I inhale his clean, vital scent. He smells of fresh laundered linen and some expensive body-wash. Oh my, it's intoxicating. I inhale deeply.

"Are you okay?" he whispers. He has one arm around me, clasping me to him, while the fingers of his other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear his breath hitch. He's staring into my eyes, and I hold his anxious, burning gaze for a moment or maybe it's forever... but eventually, my attention is drawn to his beautiful mouth. Oh my. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel his mouth on me.

Kiss me damn it! I implore him, but I can't move. I'm paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by him. I'm staring at Damon Salvatore's exquisitely sculptured mouth, mesmerized, and he's looking down at me, his gaze hooded, his eyes darkening.

He's breathing harder than usual, and I've stopped breathing altogether. I'm in your arms.

Kiss me, please. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of his head as if in answer to my silent question. When he opens his eyes again, it's with some new purpose, a steely resolve.

"Elena, you should steer clear of me. I'm not the man for you," he whispers.

What? Where is this coming from Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown up at him, and my head swims with rejection.

"Breathe, Elena, breathe. I'm going to stand you up and let you go," he says quietly, and he gently pushes me away.

Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to Damon, leaving me wired and weak. NO! My psyche screams as he pulls away, leaving me bereft. He has his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm's length, watching my reactions carefully. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and he didn't do it. He doesn't want me. He really doesn't want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning.

"I've got this," I breathe, finding my voice. "Thank you," I mutter awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterlyI need to get away from him.

"For what?" he frowns. He hasn't taken his hands off me.

"For saving me," I whisper.

"That idiot was riding the wrong way. I'm glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?" He releases me, his hands by his sides, and I'm standing in front of him feeling like a fool.

With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague, unarticulated hopes have been dashed. He doesn't want me. What was I thinking I scold myself. What would Damon Salvatore want with you. My subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the road. I quickly make my way across, conscious that Salvatore is behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briefly to face him but cannot look him in the eye.

"Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot," I murmur.

"Elena... I... " He stops, and the anguish in his voice demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at him. His gray eyes are bleak as he runs his hand through his hair.

He looks torn, frustrated, his expression stark, all his careful control has evaporated.

"What, Damon?" I snap irritably after he says - nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health.

"Good luck with your exams," he murmurs.

Huh This is why he looks so desolate. This is the big send offJust to wish me luck in my exams?

"Thanks." I can't disguise the sarcasm in my voice. "Goodbye, Mr. Salvatore." I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don't trip, and without giving him a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.

Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking. Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. Why am I crying I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am.

Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was -my dashed hopes, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.

I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay... so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball - but I understood that - running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field.

Romantically, though, I've never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity

\- I'm too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been the one to rebuff any would be admirers. There was that guy in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest - no one except Damon damn Salvatore. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Liam Clayton and Matt Donovan, though I'm sure neither of them have been found sobbing alone in dark places.

Perhaps I just need a good cry.

Stop! Stop Now! - My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping her foot in frustration. Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about him... Now! And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.

I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. Get it together Gilbert. I head for Caroline's car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of him again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.


	4. Chapter 4: Drunken State

Caroline is sitting at the dining table at her laptop when I arrive. Her welcoming smile fades when she sees me.

"Lena what's wrong?"

Oh no... not the Caroline Forbes Inquisition. I shake my head at her in a back-off now Forbes way - but I might as well be dealing with a blind, deaf mute.

"You've been crying," she has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes.

"What did that bastard do to you?" she growls, and her face - jeez, she's scary.

"Nothing Care." That's actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face.

"Then why have you been crying? You never cry," she says, her voice softening. She stands, her blue eyes brimming with concern. She puts her arms around me and hugs me.

I need to say something just to get her to back off.

"I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist." It's the best that I can do, but it distracts her momentarily from... him.

"Jeez Elena - are you okay? Were you hurt?" She holds me at arm's length and does a quick visual check-up on me.

"No. Damon saved me," I whisper. "But I was quite shaken."

"I'm not surprised. How was coffee?"

"It was fine, nothing to report really. I don't know why he asked me out."

"He likes you Elena." She drops her arms.

"Not anymore. I won't be seeing him again." Yes, I manage to sound matter of fact.

"Oh?"

Crap. She's intrigued. I head into the kitchen so that she can't see my face.

"Yeah... he's a little out of my league Care," I say as dryly as I can manage.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh Caroline, it's obvious." I whirl round and face her as she stands in the kitchen doorway.

"Not to me," she says.

"Okay, he's got more money than you, but then he has more money than most people in America!"

"Caroline he's - " I shrug.

"Elena! For heaven's sake - how many times must I tell you. You're a total babe," she interrupts me. Oh no. She's off on this tirade again.

"Care, please. I need to study." I cut her short. She frowns.

"Do you want to see the articleIt's finished. Matt took some great pictures."

Do I need a visual reminder of the beautiful Damon I-don't-want-you Salvatore?

"Sure," I magic a smile on to my face and stroll over to the laptop. And there he is, staring at me in black and white, staring at me and finding me lacking.

I pretend to read the article, all the time meeting his steady gray gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why he's not the man for me - his own words to me. And it's suddenly, blindingly obvious. He's too gloriously good-looking. We are poles apart and from two very different worlds. I have a vision of myself as Icarus flying too close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result. His words make sense. He's not the man for me.

This is what he meant, and it makes his rejection easier to accept... almost. I can live with this. I understand.

"Very good Care," I manage.

"I'm going to study." I am not going to think about him again for now, I vow to myself, and opening my revision notes, I start to read.

It's only when I'm in bed, trying to sleep, that I allow my thoughts to drift through my strange morning. I keep coming back to the 'I don't do the girlfriend thing' quote, and I'm angry that I didn't pounce on this information sooner, when I was in his arms mentally begging him with every fiber of my being to kiss me. He'd said it there and then. He didn't want me as a girlfriend. I turn on to my side. Idly, I wonder if perhaps he's celibateI close my eyes and begin to drift. Maybe he's saving himself. Well not for you, my sleepy subconscious has a final swipe at me before unleashing itself on my dreams.

And that night, I dream of gray eyes, leafy patterns in milk, and I'm running through dark places with eerie strip lighting, and I don't know if I'm running toward something or away from it... it's just not clear.

I put my pen down. Finished. My final exam is over. I feel the Cheshire cat grin spread over my face. It's probably the first time all week that I've smiled. It's Friday, and we shall be celebrating tonight, really celebrating. I might even get drunk! I've never been drunk before. I glance across the sports hall at Caroline, and she's still scribbling furiously, five minutes to the end. This is it, the end of my academic career. I shall never have to sit in rows of anxious, isolated students again. Inside I'm doing graceful cartwheels around my head, knowing full well that's the only place I can do graceful cartwheels. Caroline stops writing and puts her pen down. She glances across at me, and I catch her Cheshire cat smile too.

We head back to our apartment together in her Mercedes, refusing to discuss our final paper. Care is more concerned about what she's going to wear to the bar this evening. I am busily fishing around in my purse for my keys.

"Elena, there's a package for you." Kate is standing on the steps up to the front door holding a brown paper parcel. Odd. I haven't ordered anything from Amazon recently.

Care gives me the parcel and takes my keys to open the front door. It's addressed to Miss Elena Gilbert. There's no sender's address or name. Perhaps it's from my mom or John.

"It's probably from my folks."

"Open it!" Care is excited as she heads into the kitchen for our 'Exams are finished hurrah Champagne'.

I open the parcel, and inside I find a half leather box containing three seemingly identi-cal old cloth-covered books in mint condition and a plain white card. Written on one side, in black ink in neat cursive handwriting, is:

I recognize the quote from Tess. I am stunned by the irony as I've just spent three hours writing about the novels of Thomas Hardy in my final examination. Perhaps there is no irony... perhaps it's deliberate. I inspect the books closely, three volumes of Tess of the D'Urbervilles. I open the front cover. Written in an old typeface on the front plate is:

'London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891.'

Holy shit - they are first editions. They must be worth a fortune, and I know immediately who's sent them. Care is at my shoulder gazing at the books. She picks up the card.

"First Editions," I whisper.

"No." Caroline's eyes are wide with disbelief. "Salvatore?"

I nod.

"Can't think of anyone else."

"What does this card mean?"

"I have no idea. I think it's a warning - honestly he keeps warning me off. I have no idea why. It's not like I'm beating his door down." I frown.

"I know you don't want to talk about him, Lena, but he's seriously into you. Warnings or no."

I have not let myself dwell on Damon Salvatore for the past week. Okay... so his gray eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of his arms around me and his wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has he sent me this?

He told me that I wasn't for him.

"I've found one Tess first edition for sale in New York at $14,000. But yours looks in much better condition. They must have cost more." Care is consulting her good friend Google.

"This quote - Tess says it to her mother after Alec D'Urberville has had his wicked way with her."

"I know," muses Care.

"What is he trying to say?"

"I don't know, and I don't care. I can't accept these from him. I'll send them back with an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book."

"The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?" Care asks with a completely straight face.

"Yes, that bit." I giggle. I love Caroline, she's so loyal and supportive. I repack the books and leave them on the dining table. Care hands me a glass of champagne.

"To the end of exams and our new life in Seattle," she grins.

"To the end of exams, our new life in Seattle, and excellent results." We clink glasses and drink.

The bar is loud and hectic, full of soon to be graduates out to get trashed. Matt joins us. He won't graduate for another year, but he's in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of our newfound freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my fifth, I know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne.

"So what now Lena?" Matt shouts at me over the noise.

"Care and I are moving to Seattle. Her parents have bought a condo there for her."

"Dios mio, how the other half live. But you'll be back for my show."

"Of course, Matty, I wouldn't miss it for the world." I smile, and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close.

"It means a lot to me that you'll be there Lena," he whispers in my ear. "Another margarita?"

"Mathew Wes Donovan - are you trying to get me drunk? Because I think it's working."

I giggle. "I think I'd better have a beer. I'll go get us a pitcher."

"More drink, Elena!" Care bellows.

Care has the constitution of an ox. She's got her arm draped over Aaron, one of our fellow English students and her usual photographer on her student newspaper. He's given up taking photos of the drunkenness that surrounds him. He only has eyes for Care. She's all tiny camisole, tight jeans, and high heels, hair piled high with tendrils hanging down softly around her face, her usual stunning self. Me, I'm more of a formal - Informal dress and heels kind of girl, but I'm wearing my most flattering black dress. I move out of Matt's hold and get up from our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila based cocktails are not a good idea.

I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the powder room while I am on my feet. Good thinking, Elena. I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there's a line, but at least it's quiet and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom of waiting in line. Hmm... Who did I last call? Was it Matt?

Before that a number I don't recognize. Oh yes. Salvatore, I think this is his number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is, maybe I'll wake him. Perhaps he can tell me why he sent me those books and the cryptic message. If he wants me to stay away, he should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the automatic re-dial. He answers on the second ring.

"Elena?" He's sounds amused to hear from me. Well, frankly, I'm surprised to ring him.

Then my befuddled brain registers... how does he know it's me?

"Why did you send me the books?" I slur at him.

"Elena, are you okay? You sound strange." His voice is filled with concern.

"I'm not the strange one, you are," I accuse. There - that told him, my courage fuelled by alcohol.

"Elena, have you been drinking?"

"What's it to you?"

"I'm - curious. Where are you?"

"In a bar."

"Which bar?" He sounds exasperated.

"A bar in Portland."

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll find a way." This conversation is not going how I expected.

"Which bar are you in?"

"Why did you send me the books, Damon?"

"Elena, where are you, tell me now." His tone is so, so dictatorial, his usual control freak. I imagine him as an old time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud.

"You're so... domineering," I giggle.

"Elena, so help me, where the fuck are you?"

Damon Salvatore is swearing at me. I giggle again. "I'm in Portland... s'a long way from Seattle."

"Where in Portland?"

"Goodnight, Salvatore."

"Elena!"

I hang up. Ha! Though he didn't tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not accomplished. I am really quite drunk - my head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the line. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it's like - probably not an experience to be repeated. The line has moved, and it's now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster on the back of the toilet door that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Damon Salvatore l!? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I yelp in surprise.

"Hi," I bleat timidly in to the phone. I hadn't reckoned on this.

"I'm coming to get you," he says and hangs up. Only Damon Salvatore could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.

Holy crap. I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to get me. Oh no. I'm going to be sick... no... I'm fine. Hang on. He's just messing with my head. I didn't tell him where I was. He can't find me here. Besides, it will take him hours to get here from Seattle, and we'll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check my face in the mirror.

I look flushed and slightly unfocused. Hmm... tequila.

I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer and eventually return to the table.

"You've been gone so long." Caroline scolds me. "Where were you?"

"I was in line for the restroom."

Matt and Aaron are having some heated debate about our local baseball team. Matt pauses in his tirade to pour us all beers, and I take a long sip.

"Care, I think I'd better step outside and get some fresh air."

"Elena, you are such a lightweight."

"I'll be five minutes."

I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel nauseous, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I'm a little unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual.

Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am.

My vision has been affected, and I'm really seeing double of everything like in old re-runs of Tom and Jerry Cartoons. I think I'm going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this messed up?

"Elena," Matt has joined me. "You okay?"

"I think I've just had a bit too much to drink." I smile weakly at him.

"Me too," he murmurs, and his blue eyes are watching me intently.

"Do you need a hand?" he asks and steps closer, putting his arm around me.

"Matt I'm okay. I've got this." I try and push him away rather feebly.

"Elena, please," he whispers, and now he's holding me in his arms, pulling me close.

"Matt, what you doing?"

"You know I like you Elena, please." He has one hand at the small of my back holding me against him, the other at my chin tipping back my head. Holy fuck... he's going to kiss me. "No Matt, stop - no." I push him, but he's a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift him.

His hand has slipped into my hair, and he's holding my head in place.

"Please, Elena, cari? ," he whispers against my lips. His breath is soft and smells too sweet - of margarita and beer. He gently trails kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suffocating.

"Matt, no," I plead. I don't want this. He is my friend, and I think I'm going to throw up. "I think the lady said no." A voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Damon Salvatore, he's here. How? Matt releases me.

"Salvatore," he says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Damon. He's glowering at Matt, and he's furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I vomit spectacularly on to the ground.

"Ugh - Dios mio, Elena!" Matt jumps back in disgust. Damon grabs my hair and pulls it out of the firing line and gently leads me over to a raised flowerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep gratitude, that it's in relative darkness.

"If you're going to throw up again, do it here. I'll hold you." He has one arm around my shoulders - the other is holding my hair in a makeshift ponytail down my back so it's off my face. I try awkwardly to push him away, but I vomit again... and again. Oh shit...

How long is this going to last. Even when my stomach's empty and nothing is coming up, horrible dry heaves wrack my body. I vow silently that I'll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for words. Finally, it stops.

My hands are resting on the brick wall of the flowerbed, barely holding me up - vomiting profusely is exhausting. Salvatore takes his hands off me and passes me a handkerchief.

Only he would have a monogrammed, freshly laundered, linen handkerchief. CTG. I didn't know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the T stands for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at him. I'm swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be swallowed up by the azaleas in the flowerbed and be anywhere but here. Matt is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be the single worst moment of my life. My head is still swimming as I try to remember a worse one - and I can only come up with Damon's rejection - and this is so, so many shades darker in terms of humiliation. I risk a peek at him. He's staring down at me, his face composed, giving nothing away. Turning, I glance at Matt who looks pretty shamefaced himself and, like me, intimidated by Damon. I glare at him. I have a few choice words for my so-called friend, none of which I can repeat in front of Damon Salvatore CEO. Elena who are you kidding, he's just seen you hurl all over the ground and into the local flora. There's no disguising your lack of ladylike behavior.

"I'll err... see you inside," Matt mutters, but we both ignore him, and he slinks off back into the building. I'm on my own with Salvatore. Double crap. What should I say to him?

Apologize for the phone call.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, staring at the handkerchief which I am furiously worrying with my fingers. It's so soft.

"What are you sorry for Elena?"

Oh crap, he wants his damned pound of flesh.

"The phone call mainly, being sick. Oh, the list is endless," I murmur, feeling my skin coloring up. Please, please can I die now?

"We've all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you," he says dryly. "It's about knowing your limits, Elena. I mean, I'm all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?"

My head buzzes with excess alcohol and irritation. What the hell has it got to do with himI didn't invite him here. He sounds like a middle-aged man scolding me like an errant child. Part of me wants to say, if I want to get drunk every night like this, then it's my decision and nothing to do with him - but I'm not brave enough. Not now that I've thrown up in front of him. Why is he still standing there?

"No," I say contritely. "I've never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again."

I just don't understand why he's here. I begin to feel faint. He notices my dizziness and grabs me before I fall and hoists me into his arms, holding me close to his chest like a child.

"Come on, I'll take you home," he murmurs.

"I need to tell Care." Holy Moses, I'm in his arms again.

"My brother can tell her."

"What?"

"My brother Stefan is talking to Miss Forbes."

"Oh?" I don't understand.

"He was with me when you phoned."

"In Seattle?" I'm confused.

"No, I'm staying at the Heathman."

Still. Why?

"How did you find me?"

"I tracked your cell phone Elena."

Oh, of course he did. How is that possible. Is it legal? Stalker, my subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that's still floating in my brain, but somehow, because it's him, I don't mind.

"Do you have a jacket or a purse?"

"Err... yes, I came with both. Damon, please, I need to tell Care. She'll worry." His mouth presses into a hard line, and he sighs heavily.

"If you must."

He sets me down, and, taking my hand, leads me back into the bar. I feel weak, still drunk, embarrassed, exhausted, mortified, and on some strange level absolutely off the scale thrilled. He's clutching my hand - such a confusing array of emotions. I'll need at least a week to process them all.

It's noisy, crowded, and the music has started so there is a large crowd on the dance floor. Care is not at our table, and Matt has disappeared. Aaron looks lost and forlorn on his own.

"Where's Care?" I shout at Aaron above the noise. My head is beginning to pound in time to the thumping bass line of the music.

"Dancing," Aaron shouts, and I can tell he's mad. He's eyeing Damon suspiciously.

I struggle into my black jacket and place my small shoulder bag over my head so it sits at my hip. I'm ready to go, once I've seen Care.

"She's on the dance floor," I touch Damon's arm and lean up and shout in his ear, brushing his hair with my nose, smelling his clean, fresh smell. Oh my. All those forbidden, unfamiliar feelings that I have tried to deny surface and run amok through my drained body. I flush, and somewhere deep, deep down my muscles clench deliciously.

He rolls his eyes at me and takes my hand again and leads me to the bar. He's served immediately, no waiting for Mr. Control-Freak Salvatore. Does everything come so easily to himI can't hear what he orders. He hands me a very large glass of iced water.

"Drink," he shouts his order at me.

The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music casting strange colored light and shadows all over the bar and the clientele. He's alternately green, blue, white, and a demonic red. He's watching me intently. I take a tentative sip.

"All of it," he shouts.

He's so overbearing. He runs his hand through his unruly hair. He looks frustrated, angry. What is his problem? Apart from a silly drunk girl ringing him in the middle of the night so he thinks she needs rescuing. And it turns out she does from her over amorous friend. Then seeing her being violently ill at his feet. Oh Elena... are you ever going to live this down. My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over her half moon specs. I sway slightly, and he puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me. I do as I'm told and drink the entire glass. It makes me feel queasy. Taking the glass from me, he places it on the bar. I notice through a blur what he's wearing; a loose white linen shirt, snug jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a dark pinstriped jacket. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I see a sprinkling of hair in the gap. In my groggy frame of mind, he looks yummy.

He takes my hand once more. Holy cow - he's leading me onto the dance floor. Shit.

I do not dance. He can sense my reluctance, and under the colored lights, I can see his amused, slightly sardonic smile. He gives my hand a sharp tug, and I'm in his arms again, and he starts to move, taking me with him. Boy, he can dance, and I can't believe that I'm following him step for step. Maybe it's because I'm drunk that I can keep up. He's holding me tight against him, his body against mine... if he wasn't clutching me so tightly, I'm sure I would swoon at his feet. In the back of my mind, my mother's often-recited warning comes to me: Never trust a man who can dance.

He moves us through the crowded throng of dancers to the other side of the dance floor, and we are beside Care and Stefan, Damon's brother. The music is pounding away, loud and leery, outside and inside my head. I gasp. Care is making her moves. She's dancing her ass off, and she only ever does that if she likes someone. Really likes someone. It means there'll be three of us for breakfast tomorrow morning. Care!

Damon leans over and shouts in Stefan's ear. I cannot hear what he says. Stefan is tall with wide shoulders, very managed light brown hair, and light green, wickedly gleaming eyes. I can't tell the color under the pulsating heat of the flashing lights. Stefan grins, and pulls Care into his arms, where she is more than happy to be... Care! Even in my inebriated state, I am shocked. She's only just met him. She nods at whatever Stefan says and grins at me and waves. Damon propels us off the dance floor in double quick time.

But I never got to talk to her. Is she okay? I can see where things are heading for her and him. I need to do the safe sex lecture. In the back of my mind, I hope she reads one of the posters on the back of the toilet doors. My thoughts crash through my brain, fighting the drunk, fuzzy feeling. It's so warm in here, so loud, so colorful - too bright. My head begins to swim, oh no... and I can feel the floor coming up to meet my face or so it feels.

The last thing I hear before I pass out in Damon Salvatore's arms is his harsh epithet.

"Fuck!"

Dios Mio: Oh My God in Spanish.

Cari: Dear in Spanish

Elena's Dress link: withchic-black-spaghetti-strap-lace-waist-skater-dress/


	5. Chapter 5: What is it about Elevators?

It's very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmm... I open my eyes, and for a moment, I'm tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It's oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and golds and beige. I have seen it before. Where my befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories. Holy crap. I'm in the Heathman hotel... in a suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Caroline. This looks bigger. Oh shit. I'm in Damon Salvatore's suite. How did I get here?

Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drinking, oh no the drinking, the phone call, oh no the phone call, the vomiting, oh no the vomiting. Matt and then Damon. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don't remember coming here.

I'm wearing a white crisp dress shirt, bra, and panties. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.

I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil.

Control freak that he is, he thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don't feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine.

It's thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviving an arid mouth.

There's a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can't seem to find my voice. He opens the door anyway and strolls in.

Holy hell, he's been working out. He's in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off his hips and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like his hair. Damon Salvatore's sweat, the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two-year old, if I close my eyes then I'm not really here.

"Good morning Elena. How are you feeling?"

Oh no.

"Better than I deserve," I mumble.

I peek up at him. He places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that he has around his neck. He's staring at me, blue eyes dark, as usual, I have no idea what he's thinking. He hides his thoughts and feelings so well.

"How did I get here?" My voice is small, contrite.

He comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. He's close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my... sweat and body wash and Damon, it's a heady cocktail - so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.

"After you passed out, I didn't want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here," he says phlegmatically.

"Did you put me to bed?"

"Yes." His face is impassive.

"Did I throw up again?" My voice is quieter.

"No."

"Did you undress me?" I whisper.

"Yes." He quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.

"We didn't," I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can't complete the question. I stare at my hands.

"Elena, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my women sentient and receptive," he says dryly.

"I'm sorry."

His mouth lifts slightly in a wry smile.

"It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I'll forget in a while."

Me neither - oh he's laughing at me, the bastard. I didn't ask him to come and get me.

Somehow I've been made to feel like the villain of the piece.

"You didn't have to track me down with whatever James Bond stuff you're developing for the highest bidder," I snap at him. He stares at me, surprised, and if I'm not mistaken, a little wounded.

"Firstly, the technology to track cell phones is available over the Internet. Secondly, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices, and thirdly, if I hadn't come to get you, you'd probably be waking up in the photographer's bed, and from what I can remember, you weren't overly enthused about him pressing his suit," he says acidly.

Pressing his suit! I glance up at Damon, he's glaring at me, his blue eyes blazing, aggrieved. I try to bite my lip, but I fail to repress my laughter.

"Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?" I giggle. "You sound like a courtly knight."

His mood visibly shifts. His eyes soften and his expression warms, and I see a trace of a smile on his beautifully chiseled lips.

"Elena, I don't think so. Dark knight maybe." His smile is sardonic, and he shakes his head. "Did you eat last night?" His tone is accusatory. I shake my head. What major transgression have I committed now. His jaw clenches, but his face remains impassive.

"You need to eat. That's why you were so ill. Honestly Elena, it's drinking rule number one." He runs this hand through his hair, and I know it's because he's exasperated.

"Are you going to continue to scold me?"

"Is that what I'm doing?"

"I think so."

"You're lucky I'm just scolding you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you were mine, you wouldn't be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn't eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk." He closes his eyes, dread etched on his lovely face, and he shudders slightly. When he opens his eyes, he glares at me. "I hate to think what could have happened to you."

I scowl back at him. What is his problem? What's it to him if I was his... well I'm not. Though maybe, part of me would like to be. The thought pierces through the irritation I feel at his high-handed words. I flush at the way wardness of my subconscious - she's doing her happy dance in a bright red hula skirt at the thought of being his.

"I would have been fine. I was with Care."

"And the photographer?" he snaps at me.

Hmm...Matt. I'll need to face him at some point.

"Matt just got out of line." I shrug.

"Well the next time he gets out of line, maybe someone should teach him some manners."

"You are quite the disciplinarian," I hiss at him.

"Oh, Elena, you have no idea." His eyes narrow, and then he grins wickedly. It's disarming. One minute, I'm confused and angry, the next I'm gazing at his gorgeous smile.

Wow... I am entranced, and it's because his smile is so rare. I quite forget what he's talking about.

"I'm going to have a shower. Unless you'd like to shower first?" He cocks his head to one side, still grinning. My heartbeat has picked up, and my medulla oblongata has neglected to fire any synapses to make me breathe. His grin widens, and he reaches over and runs his thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip.

"Breathe, Elena," he whispers and rises. "Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes.You must be famished." He heads into the bathroom and closes the door.

I let out the breath that I've been holding. Why is he so damned attractive right now I want to go and join him in the shower. I have never felt this way about anyone. My hormones are racing. My skin tingles where his thumb traced over my face and lower lip.

I feel like squirming with a needy, achy... discomfort. I don't understand this reaction.

Hmm... Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.

I lie back on the soft feather filled pillows. 'If you were mine.' Oh my - what would I do to be his. He's the only man who has ever set my blood racing around my body. Yet, he's so antagonizing too; he's difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute he rebuffs me, the next he sends me fourteen-thousand-dollar books, then he tracks me like a stalker.

And for all that, I have spent the night in his hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. He cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. He's not a dark knight at all, but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor - a classic romantic hero - Sir Gawain or Lancelot.

I scramble out of his bed frantically searching for my jeans. He emerges from the bathroom wet and glistening from the shower, still unshaven, with just a towel around his waist, and there am I - all bare legs and awkward gawkiness. He's surprised to see me out of bed.

"If you're looking for your jeans, I've sent them to the laundry." His gaze is a dark obsidian. "They were spattered with your vomit."

"Oh." I flush scarlet. Why oh why does he always catch me on the back foot?

"I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They're in the bag on the chair."

Clean clothes. What an unexpected bonus.

"Um... I'll have a shower," I mutter. "Thanks." What else can I say. I grab the bag and dart into the bathroom away from the unnerving proximity of naked Damon. Michel-angelo's David has nothing on him.

In the bathroom, it's all hot and steamy from where he's been showering. I strip off my clothes and quickly clamber into the shower anxious to be under the cleansing stream of water. It cascades over me, and I hold up my face into the welcoming torrent. I want Damon Salvatore. I want him badly. Simple fact. For the first time in my life, I want to go to bed with a man. I want to feel his hands and his mouth on me.

He said he likes his women sentient. He's probably not celibate then. But he's not made a pass at me, unlike Liam or Matt. I don't understand. Does he want me? He wouldn't kiss me last week. Am I repellent to him?

And yet, I'm here and he brought me here. I just don't know what his game is. What he's thinking? You've slept in his bed all night, and he's not touched you Elena. You do the math. My subconscious has reared her ugly, snide head. I ignore her.

The water is warm and soothing. Hmm... I could stay under this shower, in his bathroom, forever. I reach for the body-wash and it smells of him. It's a delicious smell. I rub it all over myself, fantasizing that it's him - him rubbing this heavenly scented soap into my body, across my breasts, over my stomach, between my thighs with his long fingered hands. Oh my. My heartbeat picks up again, this feels so... so good.

"Breakfast is here." He knocks on the door, startling me.

"Okay," I stutter as I'm yanked cruelly out of my erotic daydream.

I climb out of the shower and grab two towels. I put my hair in one and wrap it Carmen Miranda style on my head. Hastily, I dry myself, ignoring the pleasurable feel of the towel rubbing against my over-sensitized skin.

I inspect the bag of jeans. Not only has Taylor brought me a black rip jeans and new boots, but a pale blue shirt, socks, and underwear. Oh my. A clean bra and panties - actually to describe them in such a mundane, utilitarian way does not do them justice. They are an exquisite design of some fancy European lingerie. All pale blue lace and finery. Wow. I am in awe and slightly daunted by this underwear. . What's more, they fit perfectly. But of course they do. I flush to think of the Buzz-Cut man in some lingerie store buying this for me. I wonder what else is in his job description.

I dress quickly. The rest of the clothing is a perfect fit. I brusquely towel-dry my hair and try desperately to bring it under control. But, as usual, it refuses to cooperate, and my only option is to restrain it with a hair tie. I shall search in my purse, when I find it. I take a deep breath. Time to face Mr. Confusing.

I'm relieved to find the bedroom empty. I hunt quickly for my purse - but it's not in here. Taking another deep breath, I enter the living area of the suite. It's huge. There's an opulent, plush seating area, all overstuffed couches and soft cushions, an elaborate coffee table with a stack of large glossy books, a study area with a top-of-the-range Mac, an enormous plasma screen TV on the wall, and Damon is sitting at a dining table on the other side of the room reading a newspaper. It's the size of a tennis court or something, not that I play tennis, though I have watched Care a few times. Caroline!

"Crap, Caroline," I croak. Christian peers up at me.

"She knows you're here and still alive. I texted Stefan," he says with just a trace of humor.

Oh no. I remember her fervent dancing of the night before. All her patented moves used with maximum effect to seduce Damon's brother no less! What's she going to think about me being here. I've never stayed out before. She's still with Stefan. She's only done this twice before, and both times I've had to endure the hideous pink PJs for a week from the fallout. She's going to think I've had a one-night stand too.

Damon stares at me imperiously. He's wearing a white linen shirt, collar and cuffs undone.

"Sit," he commands, pointing to a place at the table. I make my way across the room and sit down opposite him as I've been directed. The table is laden with food.

"I didn't know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu." He gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.

"That's very profligate of you," I murmur, bewildered by the choice, though I am hungry. "Yes, it is." He sounds guilty.

I opt for pancakes, maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Damon tries to hide a smile as he returns to his egg white omelet. The food is delicious.

"Coffee?" he asks.

"Yes, please."

He passes me a small teapot of hot water and on the saucer is a French Vanilla coffee teabag. Jeez, he remembers how I like my coffee.

"Your hair's very damp," he scolds.

"I couldn't find the hairdryer," I mutter, embarrassed. Not that I looked.

Damon's mouth presses into a hard line, but he doesn't say anything.

"Thank you for organizing the clothes."

"It's a pleasure, Elena. That color suits you."

I blush and stare down at my fingers.

"You know, you really should learn to take a compliment." His tone is castigating.

"I should give you some money for these clothes."

He glares at me as if I have offended him on some level. I hurry on.

"You've already given me the books, which, of course, I can't accept. But these clothes, please let me pay you back." I smile tentatively at him.

"Elena, trust me, I can afford it."

"That's not the point. Why should you buy these for me?"

"Because I can," his eyes flash with a wicked gleam.

"Just because you can doesn't mean that you should," I reply quietly as he arches an eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling, and suddenly I feel that we're talking about something else, but I don't know what it is. Which reminds me...

"Why did you send me the books, Damon?" My voice is soft. He puts down his cutlery and regards me intently, his blue eyes now gray, burning with some unfathomable emotion.

Holy crap - my mouth dries.

"Well, when you were nearly run over by the cyclist - and I was holding you and you were looking up at me - all kiss me, kiss me, Damon," he pauses and shrugs slightly, "I felt I owed you an apology and a warning." He runs his hand through his raven hair.

"Elena, I'm not a hearts and flowers kind of man, I don't do romance. My tastes are very...singular. You should steer clear from me." He closes his eyes as if in defeat. "There's something about you, though, and I'm finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you've figured that out already."

My appetite vanishes. He can't stay away!

"Then don't," I whisper.

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Enlighten me, then."

We sit gazing at each other, neither of us touching our food.

"You're not celibate then?" I breathe.

Amusement lights up his gray eyes.

"No, Elena, I'm not celibate." He pauses for this information to sink in, and I flush scarlet. The mouth-to-brain filter is broken again. I can't believe I've just said that out loud."What are your plans for the next few days?" he asks, his voice low.

"I'm working today, from midday. What is the time?" I panic suddenly.

"It's just after ten, you've plenty of time. What about tomorrow?" He has his elbows on the table, and his chin is resting on his long steepled fingers.

"Caroline and I are going to start packing. We're moving to Seattle next weekend, and I'm working at Clayton's all this week."

"You have a place in Seattle already?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"I can't remember the address. It's in the Pike Market District."

"Not far from me," his lips twitch up in a half smile. "So what are you going to do for work in Seattle?"

Where is he going with all these questions? The Damon Salvatore Inquisition is almost as irritating as the Caroline Forbes Inquisition.

"I've applied for some internships. I'm waiting to hear."

"Have you applied to my company as I suggested?"

I flush... of course not.

"Um... no."

"And what's wrong with my company?"

"Your company or your Company?" I smirk.

He smiles slightly.

"Are you smirking at me, Miss Gilbert?" He cocks his head to one side, and I think he looks amused, but it's hard to tell. I flush and glance down at my unfinished breakfast. I can't look him in the eye when he uses that tone of voice.

"I'd like to bite that lip," he whispers darkly.

Oh my. I am completely unaware that I am chewing my bottom lip. My mouth pops open as I gasp and swallow at the same time. That has to be the sexiest thing anybody has ever said to me. My heart beat spikes, and I think I'm panting. Jeez, I'm a quivering, moist mess, and he hasn't even touched me. I squirm in my seat and meet his dark glare.

"Why don't you?" I challenge quietly.

"Because I'm not going to touch you Elena - not until I have your written consent to do so." His lips hint at a smile.

"What?"

"Exactly what I say." He sighs and shakes his head at me, amused, but exasperated too.

"I need to show you, Elena. What time do you finish work this evening?"

"About eight."

"Well, we could go to Seattle this evening or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I'll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours."

"Why can't you tell me now?" I sound petulant.

"Because I'm enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once you're enlightened, you probably won't want to see me again."

Holy shit. What does that mean? Does he white-slave small children to some God-forsaken part of the planet? Is he part of some underworld crime syndicateIt would explain why he's so rich. Is he deeply religious? Is he impotent? Surely not, he could prove that to me right now. Oh my. I flush scarlet thinking about the possibilities. This is getting me nowhere. I'd like to solve the riddle that is Damon Salvatore sooner rather than later. If it means that whatever secret he has is so gross that I don't want to know him any more then, quite frankly, it will be a relief. Don't lie to yourself - my subconscious yells at me - it'll have to be pretty bloody bad to have you running for the hills.

"Tonight."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Like Eve, you're so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge," he smirks.

"Are you smirking at me,

Mr. Salvatore?" I ask sweetly. Pompous ass.

He narrows his eyes at me and picks up his IPhone. He presses one number.

"Taylor. I'm going to need Charlie Tango."

Charlie Tango! Who's he?

"From Portland at say twenty-thirty... No, standby at Escala... All night."

All night!

"Yes. On call tomorrow morning. I'll pilot from Portland to Seattle."

Pilot?

"Standby pilot from twenty-two-thirty." He puts the phone down. No please or thank you."Do people always do what you tell them?"

"Usually, if they want to keep their jobs," he says, deadpan.

"And if they don't work for you?"

"Oh, I can be very persuasive, Elena. You should finish your breakfast. And then I'll drop you home. I'll pick you up at Clayton's at eight when you finish. We'll fly up to Seattle."

I blink at him rapidly.

"Fly?"

"Yes. I have a helicopter."

I gape at him. I have my second date with Damon oh-so-mysterious Salvatore. From coffee to helicopter rides. Wow.

"We'll go by helicopter to Seattle?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He grins wickedly.

"Because I can. Finish your breakfast."

How can I eat now. I'm going to Seattle by helicopter with Damon Salvatore. And he wants to bite my lip... I squirm at the thought

"Eat," he says more sharply. "Elena, I have an issue with wasted food... eat."

"I can't eat all this." I gape at what's left on the table.

"Eat what's on your plate. If you'd eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be declaring my hand so soon." His mouth sets in a grim line. He looks angry.

I frown and return to my now cold food. I'm too excited to eat, Damon. Don't you understand My subconscious explains. But I'm too much of a coward to voice these thoughts aloud, especially when he looks so...delicious.

"What's so funny?" he asks. I shake my head, not daring tell him and keep my eyes on my food. Swallowing my last piece of pancake, I peek up at him. He's eyeing me speculatively.

"Good girl," he says. "I'll take you home when you've dried your hair. I don't want you getting ill." There's some kind of unspoken promise in his words. What does he mean I leave the table, wondering for a moment if I should ask permission but dismissing the idea. Sounds like a dangerous precedent to set. I head back to his bedroom. A thought stops me.

"Where did you sleep last night?" I turn to gaze at him still sitting in the dining room chair. I can't see any blankets or sheets out here - perhaps he's had them tidied away.

"In my bed," he says simply, his gaze impassive again.

"Oh."

"Yes, it was quite a novelty for me too." He smiles.

"Not having... sex." There - I said the word. I blush - of course.

"No," he shakes his head and frowns as if recalling something uncomfortable. "Sleeping with someone." He picks up his newspaper and continues to read.

What in heaven's name does that mean. He's never slept with anyone. He's a virgin. Somehow I doubt that. I stand staring at him in disbelief. He is the most mystifying person I've ever met. And it dawns on me that I have slept with Damon Salvatore, and I kick myself - what would I have given to be conscious to watch him sleep. See him vulnerable.

Somehow, I find that hard to imagine. Well, allegedly all will be revealed tonight.

In his bedroom, I hunt through a chest of drawers and find the hair dryer. Using my fingers, I dry my hair the best I can. When I've finished, I head into the bathroom. I want to clean my teeth. I eye Damon's toothbrush. It would be like having him in my mouth.

Hmm... Glancing guiltily over my shoulder at the door, I feel the bristles on the toothbrush.

They are damp. He must have used it already. Grabbing it quickly, I squirt toothpaste on it and brush my teeth in double quick time. I feel so naughty. It's such a thrill.

Grabbing my t-shirt, bra, and panties from yesterday, I put them in the shopping bag that Taylor brought and head back to the living area to hunt for my bag and jacket. Damon is watching me as I'm brushing my hair, his expression unreadable. I feel his eyes follow me as I sit down and wait for him to finish.

He's on his IPhone talking to someone.

"They want two?... How much will that cost?... Okay, and what safety measures do we have in place?... And they'll go via Suez?... How safe is Ben Sudan?... And when do they arrive in Darfur?... Okay, let's do it. Keep me abreast of progress." He hangs up.

"Ready to go?"

I nod. I wonder what his conversation was about. He slips on a navy pinstriped jacket, picks up his car keys, and heads for the door.

"After you, Miss Gilbert," he murmurs, opening the door for me. He looks so casually elegant.

I pause, fractionally too long, drinking in the sight of him. And to think I slept with him last night and, after all the tequila and the throwing up, he's still here. What's more, he wants to take me to Seattle. Why me? I don't understand it. I head out the door recalling his words - There's something about you - Well the feeling is entirely mutual Mr. Salvatore, and I aim to find out what it is.

We walk in silence down the corridor toward the elevator. As we wait, I peek up at him through my lashes, and he looks out of the corner of his eyes down at me. I smile, and his lips twitch.

The elevator arrives, and we step in. We're alone. Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, possibly our proximity in such an enclosed space, the atmosphere between us changes, charging with an electric, exhilarating anticipation. My breathing alters as my heart races. His head turns fractionally toward me, his eyes darkest slate. I bite my lip.

"Oh, fuck the paperwork," he growls. He lunges at me, pushing me against the wall of the elevator. Before I know it, he's got both of my hands in one of his in a vice-like grip above my head, and he's pinning me to the wall using his hips. Holy shit. His other hand grabs my hair in a fist and yanks down, bringing my face up, and his lips are on mine. It's only just not painful. I moan into his mouth, giving his tongue an opening. He takes full advantage, his tongue expertly exploring my mouth. I have never been kissed like this.

My tongue tentatively strokes his and joins his in a slow erotic dance that's all about touch and sensation, all bump and grind. He brings his hand up to grasp my chin and holds me in place. I am helpless, my hands pinned, my face held, and his hips restraining me. . I feel his erection against my belly. Oh my... He wants me. Damon Salvatore, Greek god, wants me, and I want him, here... now, in the elevator.

"You. Are. So. Delicious," he murmurs, each word a staccato.

The elevator stops, the doors open, and he pushes away from me in the blink of an eye, leaving me hanging. Three men in business suits look at both of us and smirk as they climb on board. My heart rate is through the roof, I feel like I've run an uphill race. I want to lean over and grasp my knees... but that's just too obvious.

I glance up at him. He looks so cool and calm, like he's been doing the Seattle Times crossword. How unfair. Is he totally unaffected by my presence? He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, and he gently blows out a deep breath. Oh, he's affected all right - and my very small inner goddess sways in a gentle victorious samba. The businessmen exit on the second floor. We have one more floor to travel.

"You've brushed your teeth," he says, staring at me.

"I used your toothbrush," I breathe.

His lips quirk up in a half smile.

"Oh, Elena Gilbert, what am I going to do with you?"

The doors open at the first floor, and he takes my hand and pulls me out.

"What is it about elevators?" he mutters, more to himself than to me as he strides across the lobby. I struggle to keep pace with him because my wits have been thoroughly, royally, scattered all over the floor and walls of elevator three in the Heathman Hotel.

 _Authors Note:_

 _I'm so sorry guys that it took so long for me to update. I had my exams and I just wanted to focus on that for a while but I'm back now and I'll try my best to update frequently! Love y'all :)_


	6. Chapter 6: Lies In The Dark

Damon opens the passenger door to his matte black G-wagon, and I clamber in. It's a beast of a car. He hasn't mentioned the outburst of passion that exploded in the elevator. Should we talk about it or pretend that it didn't happen. It hardly seems real, my first proper no-holds-barred kiss. As time ticks on, I assign it mythical, Arthurian legend, Lost City of Atlantis status. It never happened, it never existed. Perhaps I imagined it all. No.

I touch my lips, swollen from his kiss. It definitely happened. I am a changed woman. I want this man, desperately, and he wanted me.

I glance at him. Damon is his usual polite, slightly distant self.

How confusing.

He starts the engine and reverses out of his space in the parking lot. He switches on the MP3 player. The car interior is filled with the sweetest, most magical music of two women singing. Oh wow... all my senses are in disarray, so this is doubly affecting. It sends delicious shivers up my spine. Damon pulls out on to SW Park Avenue, and he drives with easy, lazy confidence.

"What are we listening to?"

"It's the Flower Duet by Delibes, from the opera Lakme. Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's wonderful."

"It is, isn't it?" he grins, glancing at me. And for a fleeting moment, he seems his age; young, carefree, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. Is this the key to him? Music? I sit and listen to the angelic voices, teasing and seducing me.

"Can I hear that again?"

"Of course." Damon pushes a button, and the music is caressing me once more. It's a gentle, slow, sweet, and sure assault on my aural senses.

"You like classical music?" I ask, hoping for a rare insight into his personal preferences.

"My taste is eclectic, Elena, everything from Thomas Tallis to the Kings of Leon. It depends on my mood. You?"

"Me too. Though I don't know who Thomas Tallis is."

He turns and gazes at me briefly before his eyes are back on the road.

"I'll play it for you sometime. He's a sixteenth century British composer. Tudor, church choral music." Damon grins at me. "Sounds very esoteric, I know, but it's also magical, Elena."

He presses a button, and the Kings of Leon start singing. Hmm... this I know. Sex on Fire. How appropriate. The music is interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing over the MP3 speakers. Damon hits a button on the steering wheel.

"Salvatore," he snaps. He's so brusque.

"Mr. Salvatore, it's Welch here. I have the information you require." A rasping, disembodied voice comes over the speakers.

"Good. Email it to me. Anything to add?"

"No sir."

He presses the button, then the call ceases and the music is back. No goodbye or thanks. I'm so glad that I never seriously entertained the thought of working for him. I shudder at the very idea. He's just too controlling and cold with his employees. The music cuts off again for the phone.

"Salvatore."

"The NDA has been emailed to you, Mr. Salvatore." A woman's voice.

"Good. That's all, Andrea."

"Good day, sir."

Damon hangs up by pressing a button on the steering wheel. The music is on very briefly when the phone rings again. Holy hell, is this his life, constant nagging phone calls?

"Salvatore," he snaps.

"Hi, Damon, d'you get laid?"

"Hello, Stefan - I'm on speaker phone, and I'm not alone in the car," Damon sighs.

"Who's with you?"

Damon rolls his eyes.

"Ms. Gilbert."

"Hi, Lanny!"

Lanny!

"Hello, Stefan."

"Heard a lot about you," Stefan murmurs huskily. Damon frowns.

"Don't believe a word Care says."

Stefan laughs.

"I'm dropping Elena off now." Damon emphasizes my name. "Shall I pick you up?"

"Sure."

"See you shortly." Damon hangs up, and the music is back.

"Why do you insist on calling me Ms. Gilbert?"

"Because it's your name."

"I prefer Elena ."

"Do you know?" he mummers.

We are almost at my apartment. It's not taken long.

"Elena," he muses. I scowl at him, but he ignores my expression. "What happened in the elevator - it won't happen again, well, not unless it's premeditated."

He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he's not asked me where I live - yet he knows. But then he sent the books, of course he knows where I live. What able, cell-phone-tracking, helicopter owning, stalker wouldn't.

Why won't he kiss me again? I pout at the thought. I don't understand. Honestly, his surname should be Cryptic, not Salvatore hash tag savior. He climbs out of the car, walking with easy, long-legged grace round to my side to open the door, ever the gentleman - except perhaps in rare, precious moments in elevators. I flush at the memory of his mouth on mine, and the thought that I'd been unable to touch him enters my mind. I wanted to run my fingers through his decadent, untidy hair, but I'd been unable to move my hands. I am retrospectively frustrated.

"I liked what happened in the elevator," I murmur as I climb out of the car. I'm not sure if I hear an audible gasp, but I choose to ignore it and head up the steps to the front door.

Care and Stefan are sitting at our dining table. The fourteen-thousand-dollar books have disappeared. Thank heavens. I have plans for them. She has the most un-Care ridiculous grin on her face, and she looks mussed up in a sexy kind of way. Damon follows me into the living area, and in spite of her I've-been-having-a-good-time-all-night grin,

"Hi Lanny." She says while she eyes him suspiciously.

Seriously?

She leaps up to hug me, then holds me at arm's length so she can examine me. She frowns and turns to Damon.

"Good morning, Damon," she says, and her tone is a little hostile.

"Miss Forbes," he says in his stiff formal way.

"Damon, her name is Caroline," Stefan grumbles.

"Caroline." Christian gives her a polite nod and glares at Stefan who grins and rises to hug me too.

"Hi, Lanny," he smiles, his green eyes twinkling, and I like him immediately. He's obviously nothing like Damon.

But then again, they're only half brothers.

"Hi, Stefan," I smile at him, and I'm aware that I'm biting my lip.

"Stefan, we'd better go." Damon says mildly.

"Sure." He turns to Care and pulls her into his arms and gives her a long lingering kiss.

Jeez... get a room. I stare at my feet, embarrassed. I glance up at Damon, and he's watching me intently. I narrow my eyes at him. Why can't you kiss me like that...Elliot continues to kiss Care, sweeping her off her feet and dipping her in a dramatic hold so that her hair touches the ground as he kisses her hard.

"See you tonight babe".

Kate just melts. I've never seen her melt before - the words comely and compliant come to mind. Compliant Care, boy, Stefan must be good. Damon rolls his eyes and stares down at me, his expression unreadable, although maybe he's mildly amused. He tucks a stray strand of my hair behind my ear. My breath hitches at the contact, and I lean my head slightly into his fingers. His eyes soften, and he runs his thumb across my lower lip. My blood sears in my veins. And all too quickly, his touch is gone.

"Laters, baby," he murmurs, and I have to laugh because it's so unlike him. But even though I know he's being irreverent, the endearment tugs at something deep inside me.

"I'll pick you up at eight." Damon says before he turns to leave, opening the front door and stepping out on to the porch. Stefan follows him to the car but turns and blows Caroline another kiss.

"So, did you?" Care asks as we watch them climb into the car and drive off, the burning curiosity evident in her voice.

"No," I snap irritably, hoping that will halt the questions. We head back into the apartment. "You obviously did, though." I can't contain my envy. Caroline always manages to ensnare men. She is irresistible, beautiful, sexy, funny, forward... all the things that I'm not. But her answering grin is infectious.

"And I'm seeing him again this evening." She claps her hands and jumps up and down like a small child. She cannot contain her excitement and happiness, and I can't help but feel happy for her. A happy Caroline... this is going to be interesting.

"Damon is taking me to Seattle this evening."

"Seattle?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you will then?"

"Oh, I hope so."

"You like him then?"

"Yes."

"Like him enough to... ?"

"Yes."

She raises her eyebrows.

"Wow. Elena Gilbert, finally falling for a man, and it's Damon Salvatore- hot, sexy billionaire."

"Oh yeah - it's all about the money." I smirk, and we both fall into a fit of giggles.

"Is that a new blouse?" she asks, and I let her have all the unexciting details about my night.

"Has he kissed you yet?" she asks as she makes coffee.

I blush.

"Once."

"Once!" she scoffs.

I nod, rather shame faced.

"He's very reserved."

She frowns.

"That's odd."

"I don't think odd covers it really," I murmur.

"We need to make sure you're simply irresistible for this evening," she says with determination.

Oh no... this sounds like it will be time consuming, humiliating, and painful.

"I have to be at work in an hour."

"I can work with that timeframe. Come on." Kate grabs my hand and takes me into her bedroom.

•The day drags at Clayton's even though we're busy. We've hit the summer season, so I have to spend two hours restocking the shelves once the shop is closed. It's mindless work, and it gives me too much time to think. I've not really had a chance all day.

Under Caroline's tireless and frankly intrusive instruction, my legs and underarms are shaved to perfection, my eyebrows plucked, and I am buffed all over. It has been a most unpleasant experience. But she assures me that this is what men expect these days. What else will he expect? I have to convince Care that this is what I want to do. For some strange reason, she doesn't trust him, maybe because he's so stiff and formal. She says she can't put her finger on it, but I have promised to text her when I arrive in Seattle. I haven't told her about the helicopter, she'd freak.

I also have the Matt issue. He's left three messages and seven missed calls on my cell.

He's also called home twice. Care has been very vague as to where I am. He'll know she's covering for me. Caroline doesn't do vague. But I have decided to let him stew. I'm still too angry with him.

Damon mentioned some kind of written paperwork, and I don't know if he was joking or if I'm going to have to sign something. It's so frustrating trying to guess. And on top of all the angst, I can barely contain my excitement or my nerves. Tonight's the night!

After all this time, am I ready for this. My inner goddess glares at me, tapping her small foot impatiently. She's been ready for this for years, and she's ready for anything with Damon Salvatore, but I still don't understand what he sees in me... mousey Elena Gilbert - it makes no sense.

He is punctual, of course, and waiting for me when I leave Clayton's. He climbs out of the back of the Audi to open the door and smiles warmly at me.

"Good evening, Miss Gilbert," he says.

"Mr. Salvatore." I nod politely to him as I climb into the backseat of the car. Taylor is sitting in the driver's seat.

"Hello, Taylor," I say.

"Good evening, Miss Gilbert," his voice is polite and professional. Damon climbs in the other side and clasps my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that I feel all the way though my body.

"How was work?" he asks.

"Very long," I reply, and my voice is husky, too low, and full of need.

"Yes, it's been a long day for me too." His tone is serious.

"What did you do?" I manage.

"I went hiking with Stefan." His thumb strokes my knuckles, back and forth, and my heart skips a beat as my breathing accelerates. How does he do this to me? He's only touching a very small area of my body, and the hormones are flying.

The drive to the heliport is short and, before I know it, we arrive. I wonder where the fabled helicopter might be. We're in a built-up area of the city and even I know helicopters need space to take off and land. Taylor parks, climbs out, and opens my car door. Damon is beside me in an instant and takes my hand again.

"Ready?" he asks. I nod and want to say for anything, but I can't articulate the words as I'm too nervous, too excited.

"Taylor." He nods curtly at his driver, and we head into the building, straight to a set of elevators. Elevator! The memory of our kiss this morning comes back to haunt me.

I have thought of nothing else all day. Daydreaming at the register at Clayton's. Twice Mr. Clayton had to shout my name to bring me back to Earth. To say I've been distracted would be the understatement of the year. Damon glances down at me, a slight smile on his lips. Ha! He's thinking about it too.

"It's only three floors," he says dryly, his gray eyes dancing with amusement. He's telepathic surely. It's spooky.

I try to keep my face impassive as we enter the elevator. The doors close, and it's there, the weird electrical attraction crackling between us, enslaving me. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to ignore it. He tightens his grip on my hand, and five seconds later the doors open on to the roof of the building. And there it is, a white helicopter with the name Salvatore Enterprises Holdings Inc. written in blue with the company logo on the side. Surely this is misuse of Company property.

He leads me to a small office where an old timer sits behind the desk.

"Here's your flight plan, Mr. Salvatore. All external checks are done. It's ready and waiting sir. You're free to go."

"Thank you, Joe." Christian smiles warmly at him.

Oh. Someone deserving of the polite treatment from Damon, perhaps he's not an employee. I stare at the old guy in awe.

"Let's go," Damon says, and we make our way toward the helicopter. When we're up close, it's much bigger than I thought. I expected it to be a roadster version for two, but it has at least seven seats. Damon opens the door and directs me to one of the seats at the very front.

"Sit - don't touch anything," he orders as he clambers in behind me.

He shuts the door with a slam. I'm glad that the area is floodlit, otherwise I'd find it difficult to see inside the small cockpit. I sit down in my allotted seat, and he crouches beside me to strap me into the harness. It's a four-point harness with all the straps connecting to one central buckle. He tightens both of the upper straps, so I can hardly move.

He's so close and intent on what he's doing. If I could only lean forward, my nose would be in his hair. He smells, clean, fresh, heavenly, but I'm fastened securely into my seat and effectively immobile. He glances up and smiles, like he's enjoying his usual private joke, his gray-blue eyes heated. He's so tantalizingly close. I hold my breath as he pulls at one of the upper straps.

"You're secure, no escaping," he whispers, his eyes are scorching. "Breathe, Elena," he adds softly. Reaching up, he caresses my cheek, running his long fingers down to my chin which he grasps between his thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and plants a brief, chaste kiss on my lips, leaving me reeling, my insides clenching at the thrilling, unexpected touch of his lips.

"I like this harness," he whispers.

What?

He sits down beside me and buckles himself into his seat, then begins a protracted procedure of checking gauges and flipping switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array of dials and lights and switches in front of me. Little lights wink and flash from various dials, and the whole of the instrument panel lights up.

"Put your cans on," he says, pointing to a set of headphones in front of me. I pop them on, and the rotor blades start. They are deafening. He puts his headphones on and continues flipping various switches.

"I'm just going through all the pre-flight checks." Damon's disembodied voice is in my ears through the headphones. I turn and grin at him.

"Do you know what you are doing?" I ask. He turns and smiles at me.

"I've been a fully qualified pilot for four years, Elena, you're safe with me." He gives me a wolfish grin.

"Well, while we're flying," he adds and winks at me.

Winking... Damon!

"Are you ready?"

I nod wide eyed.

"Okay, tower. PDX this is Charlie Tango Golf - Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for take-off. Please confirm, over."

"Charlie Tango - you are clear. PDX to call, proceed to one four thousand, heading zero one zero, over. "

"Roger tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out. Here we go," he adds to me, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the air.

Portland disappears in front us as we head into US airspace, though my stomach remains firmly in Oregon. Whoa! All the bright lights shrink until they are twinkling sweetly below us. It's like looking out from inside a fish bowl. Once we're higher, there really is nothing to see. It's pitch black, not even the moon to shed any light on our journey. How can he see where we're going?

"Eerie isn't it?" Damon's voice is in my ears.

"How do you know you're going the right way?"

"Here." He points his long index finger at one of the gauges, and it shows an electronic compass. "This is an EC135 Eurocopter. One of the safest in its class. It's equipped for night flight." He glances and grins at me.

"There's a helipad on top of the building I live in. That's where we're heading."

Of course there's a helipad where he lives. I am so out of my league here. His face is softly illuminated by the lights on the instrument panel. He's concentrating hard, and he's continually glancing at the various dials in front of him. I drink in his features from beneath my lashes. He has a beautiful profile. Straight nose, sculpted jawed - I'd like to run my tongue along his jaw, and his light stubble makes the prospect doubly tempting. Hmm... I'd like to feel how rough it is beneath my tongue, my fingers, against my face.

"When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation," he interrupts my erotic reverie.

"How long will the flight be?" I manage breathlessly. I wasn't thinking about sex at all, no, no way.

"Less than an hour, the wind is in our favor."

Hmm, less than an hour to Seattle... that's not bad going, no wonder we're flying.

I have less than an hour before the big reveal. All the muscles clench deep in my belly.

I have a serious case of butterflies. They are flourishing in my stomach. Holy shit, what has he got in store for me?

"You okay, Elena?"

"Yes." My answer is short, clipped, squeezed out through my nerves.

I think he smiles, but it's difficult to tell in the darkness. Damon flicks yet another switch.

"PDX this is Charlie Tango now at one four thousand, over." He exchanges information with air traffic control. It all sounds very professional to me. I think we're moving from Portland's air space to Seattle International Airport's.

"Understood Sea-Tac, standing by over and out."

"Look, over there." He points to a small pin-point of light in the far distance. "That's Seattle."

"Do you always impress women this way? Come and fly in my helicopter?" I ask, genuinely interested.

"I've never bought a girl up here, Elena. It's another first for me." His voice is quiet, serious.

Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another first? Oh the sleeping thing, perhaps?

"Are you impressed?"

"I'm awed, Damon."

He smiles.

"Awed?" And for a brief moment, he's his age again.

I nod.

"You're just so... competent."

"Why, thank you, Miss Gilbert," he says politely. I think he's pleased, but I'm not sure.

We ride into the dark night in silence for a while. The bright spot that is Seattle is slowly getting bigger.

"Sea-Tac tower to Charlie Tango. Flight plan to Escala in place. Please proceed. And standby. Over."

"This is Charlie Tango, understood Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and out."

"You obviously enjoy this," I murmur.

"What?" He glances at me. He looks quizzical in the half-light of the instruments.

"Flying," I reply.

"It requires control and concentration... how could I not love it? Though, my favorite is soaring."

"Soaring?"

"Yes. Gliding to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters - I fly them both."

"Oh." Expensive hobbies. I remember him telling me during the interview. I like reading and occasionally going to the movies. I am out of my depth here.

"Charlie Tango come in please, over." The disembodied voice of air traffic control interrupts my reverie. Damon answers, sounding in control and confident.

Seattle is getting closer. We are on the very outskirts now. Wow! It looks absolutely stunning. Seattle at night, from the sky...

"Looks good, doesn't it?" Damon murmurs.

I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly - unreal - and I feel like I'm on a giant film set, Matt's favorite film maybe, 'Bladerunner.' The memory of Matt's attempted kiss haunts me. I'm beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling him back. He can wait until tomorrow... surely.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," Damon mutters, and suddenly my blood is pounding in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. Oh my... I think I'm going to faint. My fate is in his hands.

We are now flying amongst the buildings, and up ahead I can see a tall skyscraper with a helipad on top. The word Escala is painted in white on top of the building. It's getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger... like my anxiety. God, I hope I don't let him down.

He'll find me lacking in some way.But thank god I listened to Caroline and borrowed one of her sexy black dresses, I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I can do this. I chant this mantra as the skyscraper looms below us.

The helicopter slows and hovers, and Damon sets it down on the helipad on top of the building. My heart is in my mouth. I can't decide if it's from nervous anticipation, relief that we've arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. He switches the ignition off and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing.

Damon takes his headphones off, and reaches across and pulls mine off too.

"We're here," he says softly.

His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white light from the landing lights. Dark knight and white knight, it's a fitting metaphor for Damon. He looks strained. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are tight. He unfastens his seatbelt and reaches over to unbuckle mine. His face is inches from mine.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. You know that don't you?" His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his gray eyes impassioned. He takes me by surprise.

"I'd never do anything I didn't want to do, Damon." And as I say the words, I don't quite feel their conviction because at this moment in time - I'd probably do anything for this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He's mollified.

He eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though he's so tall, he manages to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. He jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down on to the helipad. It's very windy on top of the building, and I'm nervous about the fact that I'm standing at least thirty stories high in an unenclosed space. Damon wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.

"Come," he shouts above the noise of the wind. He drags me over to an elevator shaft and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It's warm inside and all mirrored glass. I can see Damon to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is, he's holding me to infinity too. He taps another code into the keypad, then the doors close and the elevator descends.

Moments later, we're in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings, everywhere. He opens two double doors, and the white theme continues through the wide corridor and directly opposite where a palatial room opens up. It's the main living area, double height. Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads on to a balcony that overlooks Seattle.

To the right is an imposing 'U' shaped sofa that could sit ten adults comfortably. It faces a state-of-the-art stainless steel - or maybe platinum for all I know - modern fireplace.

The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area.

All white with dark wood worktops and a large breakfast bar which seats six.

Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full size, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes... he probably plays the piano too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In fact, this apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.

"Can I take your jacket?" Damon asks. I shake my head. I'm still cold from the wind on the helipad.

"Would you like a drink?" he asks. I blink at him. After last night! Is he trying to be funny For one second, I think about asking for a margarita - but I don't have the nerve.

"I'm going to have a glass of white wine, would you like to join me?"

"Yes, please," I murmur.

I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina-style on to the balcony. Seattle is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area - it takes a few seconds, it's so far from the glass wall - and Damon is opening a bottle of wine. He's removed his jacket.

"Pouilly Fume okay with you?"

"I know nothing about wine, Damon. I'm sure it will be fine." My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Bill Gates style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you're doing here - my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Damon Salvatore's bed.

"Here." He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich... heavy, contempo-rary, crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.

"You're very quiet, and you're not even blushing. In fact - I think this is the palest I've ever seen you, Elena," he murmurs. "Are you hungry?"

I shake my head. Not for food.

"It's a very big place you have here."

"Big?"

"Big."

"It's big," he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement. I take another sip of wine.

"Do you play?" I point my chin at the piano.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Yes."

"Of course you do. Is there anything you can't do well?"

"Yes... a few things." He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn't take his eyes off me. I feel them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. Room is the wrong word.

It's not a room - it's a mission statement.

"Do you want to sit?"

I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I'm struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to the notorious Alec D'Urberville. The thought makes me smile.

"What's so amusing?" He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.

"Why did you give me Tess of the D'Urbervilles specifically?" I ask. Damon stares at me for a moment. I think he's surprised by my question.

"Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy."

"Is that the only reason?" Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. His mouth presses into a hard line.

"It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec D'Urberville," he murmurs, and his gray eyes flash dark and dangerous.

"If there are only two choices, I'll take the debasement." I whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe. He gasps.

"Elena, stop biting your lip, please. It's very distracting. You don't know what you're saying."

"That's why I'm here."

He frowns.

"Yes. Would you excuse me a moment?" He disappears through a wide doorway on the far side of the room. He's gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.

"This is a non-disclosure agreement"

He shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed. "My lawyer insists on it." He hands it to me. I'm completely bemused. "If you're going for option two, debasement, you'll need to sign this."

"And if I don't want to sign anything?"

"Then it's Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway."

"What does this agreement mean?"

"It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone."

I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It's bad, really bad, and now I'm very curious to know.

"Okay. I'll sign."

He hands me a pen.

"Aren't you even going to read it?"

"No."

He frowns.

"Elena, you should always read anything you sign," he admonishes me.

"Damon, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn't talk about us to anyone, anyway. Even Caroline. So it's immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer... whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I'll sign."

He gazes down at me, and he nods gravely.

"Fair point well made, Miss Gilbert."

I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to him. Folding the other, I place it my purse and take a large swig of my wine. I'm sounding so much braver than I'm actually feeling.

"Does this mean you're going to make love to me tonight, Damon?" Holy shit. Did I just say that His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.

"No, Elena it doesn't."

'Fantastic' I murmur to myself sarcasticly.

"Firstly, I don't make love. I fuck... hard. Secondly, there's a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don't yet know what you're in for. You could still run for the hills.

Come, I want to show you my playroom."

My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so... hot. But why are we looking at a playroomI am mystified.

"You want to play on your Xbox?" I ask. He laughs, loudly.

"No, Elena, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come." He stands, holding out his hand. I let him lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we came in, another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.

"You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on stand-by to take you whenever you want to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It's fine whatever you decide."

"Just open the damn door, Damon."

He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what's in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.

And it feels like I've time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.

Holy fuck!

 _Authors Note:_

 _I hope u guys like this chapter. I'll write the next 2 chapters when I get some reviews :)_


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